"CONQUEST."      By    GERALD    O'DONOVAN. 

Putnams. 

Like  Mr.  O'Donovan's  previous  novels, 
"Father  Ralph"  and  "Waiting, "  this  work 
has  only  one  theme,  and  that  is,  Ireland 
in  her  relation  to  England,  with  the  social 
and  political  consequences  of  the  misalliance. 
This  time  the  author  has  chosen  for  his 
mouthpiece  Jim  Daly,  a  young  Irishman, 
who  becomes  a  clerk  in  the  Foreign  Office. 
On  a  visit  to  his  own  country  he  meets 
Diana  Scovvell,  the  daughter  of  a  county 
family  like  his  own,  who  has,  however, 


abandoned  her  caste  and  thrown  herself 
into  the  Sinn  Fein  movement.  She  refuses 
to  marry  her  admirer  because  he  is  an 
official  of  the  British  Government.  The 
author  then  describes  the  growth  of  Sinn 
Fein,  the  rise  of  the  cooperative  movement, 
the  adventures  of  Asquithian  Home  Rule, 
the  threatened  Ulster  rebellion,  and  the  arm- 
ing of  Southern  Ireland  as  a  counter  meas- 
ure. Jim  Daly  is  sent  by  the  Foreign  Office 
to  America  to  report  on  the  Irish  question 
here,  which  provides  Mr.  O'Donovan  with 
further  material  from  the  history  of  recent 
Irish  politics.  Every  prominent  Irish  leader 
and  Irish-American  is  introduced,  either  by 
name  or  under  a  transparent  disguise,  as 
in  the  earlier  novels  of  the  author. 

Finally  Jim  Daly  gets  an  appointment  in 
Ireland,    where    he    is    able    to    observe    at 
rirst  hand  how  the  British  authorities  manu- 
facture rebels.     There  are  graphic  descrip- 
tions of  military  raids,  of  the  closing  down 
of   Dail  Eireann,   and   of  the   anarchy   pro- 
duced   all    over    the    country    by    a    regime 
of  militarism.     The   protagonist  finishes   by 
revolting  himself   against  English    rule   and 
resolving  to  work  for  Ireland.     Whereupon 
he    is    rewarded    by   the    hand    of   the    Sinn 
Fein    amazon,    Diana.       If    endless    debate 
about  Ireland   and  her  problems,   if  lengthy 
conversations   by   cooperators,    Sinn   Feiners, 
and    moderates,    Tories    and    Liberals    can 
make    a    book    interesting    to    the    general 
reader,  then  Mr.  O'Donovan  will  have  suc- 
ceeded.     But,   in  view   of  the   reluctance   of 
the    public    in    this    country    to    read    Irish 
literature  of  a  quality  far  superior  to  this, 
it  would  be  rash  to  predict  that  "Conquest" 
will   have   any   success.      It   presupposes    an 
intense     interest    in     Irish     politics     and     a 


startling  situation^  mi  ten  keeps*  me  ieauer  mystified 
up  to  the  very  end.  Edward  J.  Clode.  1.75. 

CONQUEST.  Gerald  O'Donovan. 

Never  has  the  complexity  of  Ireland's  feud  with 
England  been  stated  more  fairly  than  in  this  absorb- 

*ing  novel.     G.    P.   Putnam's   Sons. 

ThlJr  •"* '"•'•» ''—t''*    -~'~~< ..*-" 


CONQUEST 


BY 
GERALD   O'DONOVAN 

AUTHOR  OF  " FATHER  RALPH  " 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND    LONDON 

Ube  fmfcfcerbocfeer  jpress 
1921 


Copyright,  1921 

by 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

Printed  in  the  United  Slates  of  America 


CONQUEST 


2060687 


CONQUEST 

PART  ONE 


THE  old  white  pony,  wall-eyed  but  sure-footed,  ambled 
slowly  down  the  hill.  On  Thursdays  for  twenty-two 
years  he  had  borne  Father  Pat  Daly  to  the  market  at 
Lisgeela.  When  Father  Pat  had  controlled  the  pony  they 
covered  the  four  and  a  half  miles  from  Drisheen  in  half 
an  hour;  but  for  many  years  the  pony  had  taken  control, 
and  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  Presbytery  at  Lisgeela 
exactly  an  hour  after  Father  Pat  had  made  his  sole 
contribution  to  the  journey  in  a  jerk  of  the  reins  and  a 
"Go  on,  will  you,  Whitey!"  in  the  yard  of  his  house  at 
Drisheen.  At  eleven  they  started;  at  half -past  eleven 
Whitey  had  finished  his  drink  at  the  stream  by  Phooca 
cross-roads,  and  Father  Pat  had  appraised  his  cattle  out 
on  grass  on  Devoy's  farm  beyond  the  stream;  at  Devoy's 
farmhouse  the  old,  crazy,  open  weighted  clock  in  the 
kitchen,  which  through  the  week  was  roughly  set  by  the 
sun,  was  corrected  to  the  infallibly  right  time  as  Father 
Pat  shouted,  in  passing,  a  stern  "God  save  you  all,"  to 
the  open  doorway;  and  as  the  Cathedral  bell  tolled  the 
Angelus  at  twelve  Whitey  was  licking  a  tired  fetlock 
beside  the  kerb  in  front  of  the  Lisgeela  Presbytery,  while 
Father  Pat,  standing  on  the  footwalk,  his  white  head 
bared  and  bent,  said  the  Angelus. 
3 


4  Conquest 

To-day,  till  Whitey  was  at  the  foot  of  Hill  Street,  the 
most  bedraggled  of  all  the  frowsy  approaches  to  Lisgeela, 
nothing  very  unusual  happened. 

Father  Pat's  old  housekeeper,  Julia  Feeney,  had 
harnessed  the  pony,  renewing  the  splice  on  the  left  trace 
with  a  fresh  piece  of  string,  "for  fear  it'd  give  on  the 
way." 

"It's  a  queer  turn-out  for  a  man  of  God,"  she  said,  her 
arms  akimbo,  including,  with  a  single  disapproving  sweep 
of  her  hard  grey  eyes,  the  pony,  the  harness,  the  trap,  and 
the  priest  himself. 

"Whist,  woman!"  Father  Pat  said  sternly. 

His  eyes  wandered  slowly  over  his  once  black  clothes, 
now  green  and  threadbare  from  much  wear — the  clerical 
coat  and  waistcoat  yellowed  in  front  by  snuff,  the  trousers 
baggy  at  the  knees,  and  shrunk  at  the  frayed  ends  almost 
to  the  tops  of  the  patched  and  shapeless  elastic-sided 
boots.  He  took  off  his  silk  hat,  discoloured  a  greenish- 
brown,  ruffled  where  it  was  not  napless,  looked  at  it 
whimsically  and  rubbed  it  with  his  sleeve. 

"What  the  dint  of  brushing  could  do  for  it,  I  done," 
Julia  said  reproachfully.  "Tis  I'd  turn  you  out  clean 
and  decent  if  you'd  only  put  it  in  my  power.  But  what 
can  a  woman  do  and  you  not  getting  a  stitch  of  new 
clothes  this  twenty  year?  Don't  I  put  a  shine  on  your 
boots  that  you  could  see  yourself  in  ?  And  your  shirt  and 
collar  is  as  white  as  the  driven  snow;  and  sorra  one'd 
know  they're  badly  gone  without  looking  close  at  'em." 

"Amn't  I  well  enough?"  he  said,  with  a  shrug  of  his 
broad  shoulders. 

"  Is  it  with  that  old  garron  of  a  beast  ? "  she  said,  shrilly 
contemptuous. 

"  Poor  old  Whitey,"  he  said  gently,  patting  the  pony's 
neck.  "He's  almost  as  faithful  as  you  are,  Julia — and — 
and  he's  dumb,"  he  added  hesitatingly,  with  a  wry  smile. 


Conquest  5 

"You  grudge  me  the  bit  o'  blacking  I  put  on  your  boots 
and  the  trifle  of  starch  for  your  collars,  and  now  you're 
grudging  me  my  tongue,  that  don't  cost  you  anything," 
she  said  angrily,  wiping  away  an  imaginary  tear  with  a 
corner  of  her  apron. 

He  winced,  and  gathered  up  the  reins  preparatory  to 
mounting  into  the  trap. 

"  Maybe  to  stumble,  and  you  getting  into  the  car  with 
them  in  your  hand,"  she  said,  snatching  roughly  at  the 
reins.  "Let  me  hand  'em  up  to  you.  The  poor  dumb 
beast!"  she  went  on.  "It's  well  for  him  that  it's  dumb 
he  is,  for  if  he  had  the  use  of  the  tongue  like  a  Christian, 
he  couldn't  contain  himself  at  all  at  all,  meeting  the  whole 
world  within  the  market  of  Lisgeela,  with  them  winkers 
and  a  crupper  that's  tied  up  with  tin-tacks,  and  his  collar 
all  patches  with  me  striving  to  keep  the  hair  inside  it, 
and  a  piece  of  rope  and  string  here  and  there;  and  never  a 
clippers  put  near  him  in  the  memory  of  man,  and  only  a 
lick  of  a  currycomb  when  I'm  not  pressed.  And  he  to 
have  trapesing  behind  him  that  jingling  skeleton  of  old 
iron  and  dirt,  that  a  tinker  wouldn't  misname  by  calling  it 
a  car.  You  poor  animal,  you !  it's  ashamed  you'd  be  to 
be  seen  dead  in  a  ditch  with  it,  let  alone  passing  a  throng 
of  decent  people  in  and  out  of  the  market,  and  you  alive." 

"It  is  a  bit  outlandish,"  the  priest  said  moodily,  rub- 
bing his  chin  with  his  forefinger.  ' '  I  must  get  it  repai — ' ' 
He  hesitated,  and  added,  "  I  must  throw  a  few  buckets  of 
water  on  it  when  I  come  home." 

"  Is  it  to  expose  the  nakedness  of  it  by  taking  the  blessed 
mud  off  it  you'd  be  ?  And  it  hiding  the  shame  of  the  old 
pieces  of  tin  cans  I  nail't  on  to  the  sides  and  to  the  dash- 
boards till  they  cried  out  against  it  and  wouldn't  hold 
another  nail.  Glory  be  to  God,  you're  that  close  that 
you'd  make  two  meals  off  a  wren.  Wouldn't  I  wash  it 
myself  only  for  the  shame  I'd  bring  on  it? " 


6  Conquest 

A  swarthy  flush  overspread  his  face.  His  lips  twitched. 
He  straightened  his  heavy  body  to  its  full  height  of  over 
six  feet  and  frowned  at  her  sternly.  She  faced  him 
resolutely,  her  hands  again  resting  on  her  hips. 

"And  you  a  priest  of  God,  too!"  she  threw  at  him 
vengefully. 

His  features  relaxed  and  the  frown  passed  off.  With  a 
half  shamefaced  smile  he  said:  "  Whitey  and  the  old  trap 
are  good  enough  for  me,  and  they'll  last  my  time.  Anyway, 
the  Son  of  God  hadn't  even  an  ass  and  cart  under  Him." 

"The  pride  of  the  man,"  she  said  with  a  gasp,  "liken- 
ing himself  to  the  Lord  God.  But  sure  it's  kind  for  you, 
and  you  with  the  pure  blood  of  the  Dalys  in  you,"  she 
added  proudly. 

"None  of  that,"  he  said  angrily.  With  a  contemptu- 
ous look,  he  climbed  laboriously  into  the  trap. 

She  quailed  under  his  eyes,  but  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
and  muttered  as  he  turned  his  back:  "And  him  not  for- 
getting it  for  a  minute,  night  or  morning.  There  he  goes 
now,  the  handsomest  man  in  seven  counties.  If  it  wasn't 
for  the  saint  he  always  was,  it's  the  devil's  play  he'd  have 
with  the  women — hussies  they  are !  Him  with  the  pride 
of  Lucifer  in  his  eye  and  the  way  he  holds  himself.  Sure 
it's  in  rags  he  could  go  and  not  a  bishop  in  the  land  could 
hold  a  candle  to  him.  And  him  that  big  a  skinflint  of  a 
miser  that  he'd  skin  a  flea  to  sell  the  fat.  And  him,  too, 
that  wouldn't  wrong  man,  woman  or  child,  or  the  brute 
beast,  and  wears  out  the  knees  of  his  breeches  with  the 
dint  of  praying.  It's  a  contradictory  world,  glory  be  to 
the  Almighty,  and  it's  Father  Pat  himself  is  the  queerest 
man  in  it." 

When  he  had  settled  himself  into  the  seat  she  handed 
him  the  reins.  "You  might  bring  home  a  scrag  end  of 
mutton  in  the  car  with  you.  I  could  cook  a  chop  of  it  for 
your  dinner,"  she  said  doubtfully. 


Conquest  7 

"I  might  then,  if  it  wasn't  a  conference  day.  But  I'll 
be  dining  with  his  lordship  and  all  the  priests.  Such  a 
waste  of  meat  and  drink,"  he  muttered  thoughtfully, 
"and  we  have  to  pay  dear  for  it,  five  shillings  a  head  and 
vail  of  a  shilling  to  the  servants.  Enough  to  support  a 
man  in  luxury  for  a  week." 

"Sure  we'll  be  in  need  of  the  meat  for  to-morrow,"  she 
persisted. 

"Hear  the  woman  now,  and  to-morrow  a  Friday.  Is 
it  heathens  you'd  be  making  of  us,  Julia  Feeney?" 

"There's  the  long  week  before  us,  and  not  a  scrap  of 
butcher's  meat  darkened  the  door  since  the  bishop  was 
here  for  the  Confirmation,"  she  said  with  failing  con- 
fidence. "Nine  months  ago  it  was." 

"We  had  enough  then  to  last  us  a  twelvemonth,  feast- 
ing every  day  for  ten  days  we  were  on  what  was  left 
over." 

"You'll  have  your  fill  to-day,  anyhow,"  she  said 
angrily. 

"It's  on  the  point  of  eleven,  and  I  must  be  going,"  he 
said  evasively.  "  I  suppose  I'll  eat  it  as  I'll  have  to  pay 
for  it,"  he  added  to  himself.  "But  every  bite'll  near 
choke  me,  knowing  the  cost  of  it." 

He  looked  round  the  yard,  at  the  tumbled-down  out- 
houses, at  the  worm-eaten  doors,  and  again  at  the 
horse. 

"  Whitey's  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Julia  Feeney,"  he 
said  gently,  his  eyes  softening  as  he  looked  at  the  old 
woman.  "But  you've  been  a  better.  Five  and  thirty 
years  you  have  served  me  in  fair  weather  and  foul,  and 
there  isn't  a  better  servant  living  this  day." 

The  old  woman  fingered  her  apron  nervously,  curtsied, 
her  yellow  parchment  face  flushed.  She  tugged  at  the 
strings  of  her  white  goffered  cap,  as  she  said,  "Sure,  I 
never  hoped  to  live  to  hear  your  reverence  give  me  such 


8  Conquest 

praise  as  all  that.  There  isn't  the  likes  of  you  in  all  the 
living  earth." 

He  looked  troubled  and  lifted  up  the  reins  as  if  to  give 
them  a  jerk. 

He  hesitated.  A  generous  look  came  into  the  hard 
eyes  under  his  white,  bushy  eyebrows. 

"I  might  bring  that  scrag,"  he  said. 

"And  why  would  you,  your  reverence?"  she  said 
eagerly.  "Sure  there's  plenty  of  fine  food  in  the  house, 
a  scrap  of  bacon  no  less.  And  there's  sure  to  be  an  egg 
before  the  night,  or  maybe  two." 

"That's  true,"  he  said  in  a  relieved  tone.  "Butcher's 
meat  is  a  sinful  waste,  and  all  that  fine  food  about. 
You  might  pull  up  a  stalk  of  the  new  potatoes — they're 
ripe  by  this — for  your  dinner.  And  take  a  trifle  of 
butter  with  "em.  Not  much,"  he  added,  pursing  his  lips. 
"It's  a  rich  food  and  goes  to  the  head." 

"You  can  trust  me  to  go  slow  on  it,  your  reverence," 
she  said  gratefully. 

He  jerked  the  reins.  "Go  on,  will  you,  Whitey!"  he 
said  mechanically.  The  pony  started  after  a  strained 
pull.  The  old  woman  ran  to  the  rickety  gate  and  held  it 
open. 

"And  Julia,  as  the  day  is  hot,  and  there  won't  be  much 
cooking  to  do,  you  might  be  sparing  on  the  turf." 

"Out  the  fire'll  go,  when  the  praties  is  boiled.  And 
you'll  be  careful  of  your  health,  Father  Pat,  agra,"  she 
said  anxiously.  "There's  a  flushed  look  on  you  for  some 
days  past  that  can't  be  wholesome." 

"Nonsense,  woman,"  he  said,  sitting  upright.  "I  feel 
as  sweet  as  that  hawthorn  bush  in  the  hedge  beyond." 

"Good  luck  to  you,  and  a  good  price  on  the  bullocks," 
she  shouted  after  him. 

"I  told  Devoy  not  to  let  'em  go  at  a  penny  under 
nineteen  five,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder. 


Conquest  9 

"There's  a  farmer  for  you!"  she  shouted  admiringly. 
"Not  another  man  in  the  barony'd  have  the  courage  to 
ask  eighteen  pounds  for  'em.  But  then  they  haven't  his 
eye  for  a  beast.  And  he'll  get  it  too;  and  the  odd  five 
shillings  to  cover  the  luck  penny.  It's  generous  he 
always  was  in  luck  pennies." 

The  voice  became  indistinct  and  trailed  off.  The 
reference  to  luck  pennies  annoyed  him.  Half-a-crown 
would  be  ample.  And  Devoy  said  he'd  run  the  risk  of 
losing  the  sale  because  of  the  extra  five  shillings.  But  a 
pound  couldn't  be  broken  for  a  luck  penny;  and  his  pride 
wouldn't  let  him  give  less  than  five  shillings.  The  Dalys 
never  gave  less.  And  wasn't  he  a  real  Daly  ?  The  whole 
world  knew  it.  Wasn't  he  born  in  Dalyhouse?  He 
fumbled  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  took  out  a  gold 
hunter  watch  and  looked  with  glowing  eyes  on  the  crest,  a 
wolf  dog,  and  the  motto  "Drum  spiro  spero."  The 
watch  was  nearly  all  that  was  left  of  three  parishes  and 
the  town  of  Lisgeela.  But  there  was  the  motto.  Aye, 
while  there  was  life  there  was  hope.  And  he  was  only 
seventy.  He  put  back  the  watch  in  his  pocket.  The 
pony  jogged  along.  The  soft  summer  air  was  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  spirea  and  privet.  He  drew  in  a  deep  breath. 
There  used  to  be  a  privet  hedge  along  the  sunk  fence  at 
Dalyhouse.  How  well  he  remembered  it,  though  he 
hadn't  seen  it  since  '35,  sixty-one  years  ago,  and  he  only 
nine  years  old.  And  his  grand-nephew,  Jim,  was  nine 
years  old  this  very  June.  To-morrow  was  it?  Yes! 
he  must  give  him  a  present.  He  shuffled  in  his  seat  and 
frowned.  He  sniffed  the  delicate  scent  of  new-mown  hay. 
"You've  kept  it  standing  two  days  too  long,  Richard," 
he  shouted  over  the  hedge. 

"That's  God's  truth,  your  reverence.  'Tis  you  have 
the  eyes  on  you,  Father  Pat.  And  how  is  the  health, 
sir?" 


io  Conquest 

'  Never  felt  younger  or  better  in  my  life.  A  good  crop 
to  you." 

"And  the  best  of  every  good  luck  to  your  reverence. 
Sure  'tis  you  that  deserves  it." 

Whitey  kept  his  even  pace,  raising  a  trail  of  white  dust 
on  the  soft  limestone  road.  The  priest  flicked  neatly  a 
horse-fly  off  the  pony's  neck  and  replaced  the  whip  in  its 
rest.  No,  he  wouldn't  give  Jim  a  present.  There  was 
nothing  good  enough  for  him  in  Lisgeela,  and  Dublin  was 
too  far  away,  and  a  present  would  cost  too  much.  He 
couldn't  afford  it.  Besides,  Jim  would  have  everything 
one  day.  He  had  the  Daly  nose  and  chin,  and  was  a  fine 
upstanding  lad.  But  had  he  the  spirit?  The  boy's 
father  had  it.  If  Jim  only  turned  out  to  have  the  go 
and  courage  of  his  father,  Theobald !  He  was  a  man  for 
you,  a  Daly  of  the  Dalys.  If  Theobald  had  only  had  a 
fair  chance!  But  he  hadn't — and  to  die  at  thirty-four! 
Thank  God  he  died  like  a  gentleman,  broke  his  neck  tak- 
ing the  sunk  fence  in  the  Dalyhouse  demesne,  and  he 
following  the  hounds  on  a  spavined  horse.  And  they 
called  him  a  peasant.  Scovell  had  sneered  at  him  in  the 
coffee  room  of  the  Daly  Arms  at  Lisgeela,  and  at  his 
mount,  had  called  him  "  the  peasant  Daly."  Scovell,  the 
grandson  of  the  upstart  who  had  foreclosed  the  mortgage 
in  '35  and  taken  Dalyhouse  and  every  acre  and  chattel 
that  the  Dalys  had  to  their  name,  except  a  hundred  acre 
farm  Pierce  the  Rake's  wife  was  able  to  hold  on  to — 
Scovell,  a  mere  Cromwellian  settler. 

He  leant  forward  in  the  trap  as  Whitey  climbed  the 
short  hill  at  Culleen.  It  would  be  a  bad  job  if  the  har- 
ness went;  but  there  was  the  hammer  and  tacks  and 
bundle  of  string  in  the  bottom  of  the  trap  in  case  of  acci- 
dents. How  cool  the  Lissyfad  woods  looked.  The  day 
was  a  scorcher  to  be  sure.  And  he  was  feeling  the  heat. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  red 


Conquest  « 

bandanna  handkerchief.  That  was  a  queer  throbbing  in 
his  temples.  He  looked  at  his  hat  with  a  wry  smile.  He 
had  seen  better  on  a  scarecrow.  And  all  his  scraping 
and  gathering  had  been  for  Theobald;  and  Theobald  was 
dead.  He  hadn't  given  him  the  money,  but  he  would 
have,  had  Theobald  not  been  killed.  A  furtive  look 
crossed  his  face,  and  he  shrank  from  the  thought  as  if 
he  were  afraid.  He  would  have  given  it  the  moment  it 
could  have  been  useful.  Theobald  was  a  man.  Hadn't 
he  snatched  Arabella  Levin  of  Lissyf ad  from  under  Derek 
Scovell's  nose?  Eloped  with  her  to  Dublin,  where  she 
became  a  Catholic  and  married  him.  How  the  Orange 
pack  raged  and  shut  their  doors  on  her — left  her  to  stew 
in  her  Papist  peasant  muck  was  how  her  father,  Dick 
Levin,  put  it.  Arabella  might  have  been  a  Daly  in  blood 
she  held  her  head  so  high  in  the  little  house  in  Scarty. 
And  the  Levins  had  only  come  to  Ireland  in  the  train  of 
Dutch  William — upstarts  of  yesterday. 

According  to  custom,  Whitey  stood  for  a  few  minutes  on 
the  level,  and  nibbled  at  the  lush  June  grass  on  the  road- 
side. Away  on  the  left,  in  the  woods,  beyond  Lisgeela,  a 
great  whitish-grey  limestone  house  faced  the  sun.  The 
old  man's  eyes  blurred.  He  took  out  his  Book  of  Hours. 
As  there  was  a  conference  he  would  anticipate  Vespers 
and  Compline.  He  held  the  book  open,  but  he  could  not 
read  the  print.  What  matter,  he  knew  it  all  by  heart. 
He  mumbled  the  prayers  till  Whitey  started  again,  but 
his  mind  was  back  sixty-one  years.  From  that  time  to 
this,  except  from  the  top  of  Culleen  Hill,  he  had  never  seen 
Dalyhouse.  What  had  come  over  him  to-day?  The 
house  seemed  gaunt  and  forbidding.  Had  he  been  wrong 
in  his  attachment  to  it?  .  .  .  His  grandfather  had 
begun  the  trouble  by  breaking  the  entail.  But  it  was  his 
father,  Pierce  the  Rake,  who  mortgaged  everything  and 
played  the  fool.  He  was  Pierce  the  Rake  at  Dalyhouse, 


12  Conquest 

and  he  was  Pierce  the  Rake  afterwards  at  Scarty;  only 
instead  of  getting  drunk  on  wine,  he  got  drunk  on  poteen 
whisky.  He  used  to  sit  in  the  shebeen  near  Scarty  and 
sell  the  trees,  one  by  one,  for  drink,  and  boast  of  the  days 
when  he  rollicked  with  the  Regent.  And  his  poor  mother 
stuck  in  the  house,  ashamed  to  be  at  home  to  the  few 
callers  who  remembered  her  in  misfortune,  spending  her 
time  praying  at  the  little  altar  in  her  bedroom,  or  sitting 
in  the  parlour  discussing  the  inferiority  of  the  Scov- 
ells.  .  .  . 

Whitey  had  his  drink  at  the  Phooca  cross-roads. 
Father  Pat,  without  looking  at  the  house,  said,  "God 
save  you  all"  in  passing  Devoy's.  Mrs.  Devoy  ran  out 
into  the  road  and  shouted  after  him,  "  Tom  got  the  nine- 
teen five  for  the  bullocks,  your  reverence";  but  he  never 
turned  his  head.  "That's  two  hundred  and  eleven 
pounds  clear  profit  on  'em,"  he  murmured  listlessly  to 
himself;  and  in  a  moment  he  was  thinking  of  his  brother 
Pierce,  who  was  only  five  when  they  left  Dalyhouse. 
Young  Pierce  had  no  memories  of  the  place  after  a  few 
years  and  worked  at  Scarty  like  a  farm  hand.  By  the 
time  he  was  sixteen  he  was  running  the  farm,  weighed 
down  by  his  father's  debts  and  his,  Pat's,  expenses  at 
Maynooth.  It  was  queer  that  Pierce,  who  hadn't  a  drop 
of  peasant  blood  in  him,  had  no  pride  in  his  Daly  blood, 
took  naturally  to  the  ways  of  a  peasant,  and  married  Ann 
Driscoll,  the  daughter  of  a  tenant  farmer;  while  Theo- 
bald, in  spite  of  his  mother's  blood,  was  a  throw-back  to 
the  pure-bred  Daly.  .  .  . 

And  now  up  at  Scarty  were  his  brother  Pierce,  Arabella 
and  Jim.  Three  generations  of  'em  without  maybe  a 
thought  of  the  Daly  name.  Theobald  had  it.  But 
Theobald  was  dead.  Jim  must  have  it — he  must  be 
made  to  have  it.  He  mustn't  grow  up  a  peasant  and  be 
led  astray  by  his  grandfather.  .  .  . 


Conquest  13 

He  had  intended  to  help  Theobald.  Who  was  it  saying 
that  he  hadn't  helped  him?  It  was  true  that  he  had 
refused  to  lend  him  fifty  pounds  to  buy  a  horse,  although 
he  encouraged  him  to  hunt.  But  it  was  all  for  his 
good.  He  was  to  have  had  all  the  money  one  day 
when  he  could  strike  a  blow  for  the  Daly  name.  What 
was  the  cold  sweat  on  his  forehead?  And  Theobald 
had  been  killed  by  an  old  spavined  horse  gone  in  the 
knees.  .  .  . 

He  wasn't  a  miser.  Careful  maybe.  And  who 
wouldn't  with  such  an  end  in  view  ?  Maybe  to  make  the 
Dalys  once  more  a  power  in  the  land  ?  Jim'd  do  it.  Jim 
must  do  it.  And  he'd  help  him.  Not  at  once  perhaps. 
But  when  the  right  day  came  there'd  be  all  the  more  for 
Jim  to  get.  There  was  no  use  in  wasting  money.  And 
Jim'd  have  it  all  one  day  or  another — every  penny. 
There  were  still  things  he  could  cut  down.  Piles  and 
piles  of  money  he  could  make  by  saving — enough  to 
buy  back  Dalyhouse,  to  keep  twenty  horses  in  the 
stables.  .  .  . 

Whitey  ambled  slowly  down  the  hill.  The  priest's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  grass  and  wild  mustard  that 
crowned  the  dilapidated  thatched  cottages  on  his  right 
— a  sea  of  gold  they  seemed  to  his  gloating  eyes ;  a  sea  of 
gold  coins  rolling  in  billows  to  his  feet.  .  .  . 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  there  was  a  check  on  the  reins. 
Whitey  hesitated.  It  was  opposite  Mallon,  the  grocer's, 
where  he  had  sometimes  stopped  on  the  way  home. 
There  was  no  repetition  of  the  check,  so  he  ambled  on  and 
halted  at  the  Presbytery  door. 

The  Angelus  bell  tolled.  A  priest  on  his  way  to  the 
conference  stood  and  prayed  beside  the  trap.  His  eyes 
strayed  to  Father  Pat  still  seated,  his  head  thrown 
slightly  back.  He  stared  at  him  as  if  fascinated  for  a  few 
seconds,  muttering  a  "Hail  Mary,"  then  jumped  forward, 


14  Conquest 

caught  his  hand,  and  turning  round,  said,  "May  God 
have  mercy  on  his  soul." 


II 

The  Most  Reverend  Dr.  Deehan,  Bishop  of  Lisgeela, 
knelt  on  the  dining-room  armchair  in  which  he  was  after- 
wards to  preside  at  the  conference.  The  priests  of  the 
conference  district  knelt  in  varied  attitudes  on  chairs 
all  round  the  long  dining  table,  now  merely  a  desk  for 
tattered  copies  of  Gury's  Theologia  Moralis.  The  lower 
end  of  the  table,  farthest  from  his  lordship,  was  congested. 
The  bishop  had  finished  the  Angelus  and  had  begun  to 
call  on  the  Holy  Ghost  to  assist  at  the  conference  when 
the  door  of  the  room  was  violently  shoved  open.  A 
priest  rushed  in,  pale  of  face,  and  in  a  scared  voice  said: 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,  Father  Pat  Daly  is  dead  in  his  car 
at  the  door." 

Every  eye  in  the  room  was  fixed  on  the  herald  of  death. 
Mouths  hung  open.  Father  Tom  Nulty  felt  that  for 
once  he  had  gained  the  ear  of  the  bishop  who  always 
snubbed  him,  and  of  his  fellows  who  treated  him  as  a 
butt.  His  face  flushed  with  excitement. 

"The  Angelus  bell  caught  me — I'm  sorry  I  was  so  late, 
my  lord — beside  his  car,  and  I  off  with  my  hat  and  I 
hadn't  'The  Angel  of  the  Lord'  out  of  me  when  I  saw 
there  was  something  wrong.  There  he  was  leaning  back 
like  a  drunken  man,  and  he  doesn't  take  a  sup,  the  pale 
face  of  him  as  purple  as  your  lordship's  soutane,  and  his 
eyes  staring  out  of  his  head.  I  thought  at  first  it  was 
only  a  fit,  but  when  I  caught  hold  of  him  he  was  stone 
dead." 

The  florid  face  of  the  bishop  went  pale  under  the  eyes. 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  heart.  Reassured,  he  said 
solemnly : 


Conquest  15 

"May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul." 

"Amen,  Amen,  Amen,"  responded  from  all  over  the 
room. 

There  was  a  clattering  of  chairs  as  the  priests  hastily 
got  to  their  feet.  The  bishop  dropped  heavily  into  his 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  younger  priests  at 
the  end  of  the  table  crowded  round  the  two  front  windows 
and  gazed  at  the  dead  man  in  the  trap. 

"That  puts  the  lid  on  any  work  at  this  conference, 
thank  God,"  Father  Dunphy  said,  in  a  low  but  relieved 
tone. 

"Aye,  begannies,"  Father  Crehan  said,  rubbing  his 
hands.  "And  the  lord'd  have  downed  me  to-day  in  the 
Justice  tract  as  sure  as  a  gun.  He  fixed  me  with  his 
glary  eye  as  soon  as  he  came  into  the  room.  How  funny 
old  Pat  Daly  looks  with  his  old  topper  cocked  like  that." 

A  tall,  thin  priest,  in  a  caped  soutane,  his  thick  brown 
hair  turning  grey  at  the  temples,  pushed  Father  Crehan 
aside,  saying: 

"  If  you  have  no  feeling,  at  least  have  some  dignity — if 
you  can,"  and  he  pulled  down  the  thin  holland  blind. 
As  he  made  his  way,  with  difficulty,  to  the  second  window, 
Crehan  looked  at  him  malevolently  and  said : 

"Lysaght  is  too  big  a  boss." 

"He's  the  Administrator  anyway,  and  it's  his  house," 
Dunphy  said,  good-humouredly,  "and  no  doubt  he  wants 
to  get  into  the  lord's  eye  so  as  to  be  in  the  running  for 
Drisheen.  Anyhow,  to  give  him  his  due  he  was  a  friend 
of  old  Pat's." 

"Friend  in  my  eye,"  Crehan  said  bitterly.  "Could 
any  one  be  the  friend  of  a  man  who  never  proffered  a  soul 
a  glass  of  punch  except  at  a  Confirmation — when  he  had 
to?  You  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head  at  first,  Dunphy. 
It's  after  Drisheen  Lysaght  is." 

"You're  a  bitter  devil,  Crehan,"  Dunphy  said  amiably. 


16  Conquest 

"Lysaght  isn't  that  kind,  and  old  Pat  Daly  was  as 
straight  a  friend  as  ever  walked.  No  doubt  you're  after 
Drisheen  yourself." 

"And  if  I  am,  who  has  a  better  right?"  Crehansaid, 
drawing  himself  up  pompously.  "Lysaght  is  only  an 
Administrator  and  I've  been  a  P.P.  for  seven  years — in  a 
poor  parish  with  only  half  the  dues  of  Drisheen,  and  I've 
the  right  of  grass  for  only  nine  bullocks  agin  thirty-five  in 
Drisheen.  If  there's  any  fairness  in  man  I'll  get  it." 

"Let  old  Pat  get  cold  first  anyway,"  Dunphy  said, 
with  a  shrug. 

"If  you  take  your  seats,  gentlemen,"  Father  Lysaght 
said  firmly,  "I'll  see  to  poor  Father  Pat.  Would  you 
come  with  me,  Father  Breslin  and  Father  Brophy?" 

Three  priests  left  the  room.  The  others  took  their 
seats. 

"Poor,  indeed — and  him  with  the  grass  of  thirty-five 
bullocks,"  Father  Crehan  mumbled. 

The  bishop  drummed  the  table  unconsciously  with  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  while  he  tugged  his  limp  Roman 
collar  away  from  his  wet  neck  with  his  right.  His  face 
was  as  purple  as  his  stock.  His  undershot  lower  jaw 
hung  open,  exposing  gaps  in  his  big  yellow  teeth.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  vacantly  on  an  engraving  of  Robert 
Emmett  making  his  dying  speech. 

"  Father  Pat  had  the  better  of  me  by  three  years — I'm 
only  sixty-seven  and  a  young  man  yet,"  a  fat,  undersized 
priest  said  querulously,  adding  hastily,  in  afterthought, 
"God  rest  his  soul." 

"Oh,  but,  Father  Lynch,  the  corpse,  God  give  him  a 
soft  bed,  was  two  stone  lighter  than  you,  and  near  a  foot 
taller,"  a  spare  old  man  with  grizzled  hair  said  brutally. 
"There's  death,  maybe,  for  a  fat  man  in  every  step  he 
takes,"  he  added,  with  a  calculating  glance  round  the 
table. 


Conquest  17 

There  was  shuffling  of  many  feet.  Father  Lynch's 
pendulous  cheeks  shook.  His  protuberant  waistcoat 
rose  and  fell  to  his  short  pants  for  breath. 

"There's  no  fear  of  me — not  for  ten  years  to  come,"  he 
quavered  valorously,  wetting  his  lips  with  his  tongue. 
He  looked  round  for  sympathy  and  found  the  spare  old 
man's  eyes  fixed  on  him  appraisingly. 

"A  watched  pot  takes  a  long  time  to  boil,"  he  wheezed, 
pulling  himself  together.  "Father  Griffin  always  had  a 
liking  for  my  parish,  my  lord.  But  sure  it's  the  lean  men 
often  goes  first — the  heart  it  is.  A  sort  of  worm  gnawing 
at  their  innards — and  flop,  off  they  go." 

This  cryptic  excursion  into  physiology  relieved  the 
tension.  There  was  a  general  laugh. 

The  bishop  sighed,  rapped  the  table  loudly,  and  said : 

"Order,  order,  gentlemen." 

"You're  a  fine,  full  man  yourself,  my  lord,  may  God 
bless  you.  But  there's  little  fear  of  you  yet,"  Father 
Lynch  said  ingratiatingly. 

"Tut,  tut,  I'm  a  young  man,"  the  bishop  said,  in  an 
annoyed  tone,  opening  the  top  buttons  of  his  soutane, 
and  mopping  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"He's  fat  and  red  about  the  gills,"  Father  Griffin 
muttered  gloomily  to  the  table.  "I  wouldn't  give  much 
for  the  chances  of  a  man  of  fifty-nine  with  his  lining." 

"What's  that,  Father  Griffin  ? "  the  bishop  said  sternly. 
"  Only  that  you're  likely  to  live  down  the  youngest  of  us, 
my  lord,"  Father  Griffin  said  morosely. 

"Hum,  hum,"  the  bishop  said,  drumming  the  table 
nervously.  "The  sudden  death  of  Father  Daly,  gentle- 
men, in  the  fulness  of  years  and  priestly  virtue  though  it 
be,  is  a  lesson  to  all  of  us.  Death  comes  like  a  thief  in  the 
night — but  I  needn't  labour  the  point  to  men  who  always 
live  in  the  presence  of  God.  Father  Daly  died  in 
harness." 


1 8  Conquest 

There  were  sounds  of  much  trampling  of  feet  in  the 
hall,  as  of  men  bearing  a  burthen. 

"  He  had  thirty-five  bullocks  in  the  market  this  morn- 
ing," Father  Crehan  murmured  enviously. 

"As  I  said,"  the  bishop  resumed,  "he  died  in  harness, 
doing  the  work  of  God.  Father  Daly  came  to  the  con- 
ference and  has  gone  to  his  reward.  He  was  an  example 
to  all  of  us.  A  man  of  very  old  family,  he  had  all  the 
humility  of  the  humblest  of  us.  In  his  obedience  to  my 
slightest  wish  he  was  a  true  son  of  holy  church.  In  his, 
ahem,  frugality  of  life  he  was  a  beautiful  example  of  holy 
poverty." 

"He  was  saving  up,  you  may  be  sure,  for  the  new 
Cathedral,  my  lord,"  Father  Lynch  said  unctuously. 

"Being  a  man  of  God,  I've  no  doubt  he  has  re- 
membered the  house  of  God  generously,"  the  bishop 
said,  with  equal  unction,  his  thick  lips  relaxing  to  a 
smile. 

"Any  man  with  Drisheen  parish  would,"  Father 
Crehan  said  piously. 

"Any  priest  of  any  parish  in  the  diocese  should,"  the 
bishop  said  sharply.  "It  is  easy  to  be  generous  with 
other  people's  money,"  he  added,  with  a  pointed  look  at 
Father  Crehan. 

Father  Crehan  blushed,  fiddled  with  the  gold  cross  on 
his  watchchain,  hesitated,  as  if  drawing  back  on  the  point 
of  making  a  plunge,  made  up  his  mind  and  said  with  an 
air  of  reckless  courage : 

"I  was  going  to  tell  your  lordship  later  that  I'm  going 
to  give  another  hundred  to  the  building  fund.  If  I  only 
had  the  means,"  he  added  significantly,  "it  might  be 
five  times  as  much — but  Leemagh  is  a  poor  parish,  my 
lord." 

The  bishop's  grey-brown  eyes  gleamed. 

"Make  a  note  of  that,  Father  Carberry,"  he  said 


Conquest  19 

drily,  to  his  secretary.  "Father  Crehan  prom- 
ises a  hundred  pounds  to  the  Cathedral  building 
fund." 

"Crehan  couldn't  play  a  pinkeen  let  alone  a  big  fish 
like  the  lord,"  Father  Griffin  said  gloomily. 

"Diddled,"  Dunphy  giggled. 

"You're  lucky  to  have  such  a  rich  parish  as  Leemagh, 
Father  Crehan,"  the  bishop  said  suavely.  "If  I  were  a 
man  of  your  status  and  had  such  a  parish  I'd  expect  to 
stay  there  for —  "  he  pursed  his  lips  and  frowned  thought- 
fully, "well — for  ten  years  at  least.  But  to  come  back  to 
Father  Daly." 

"I  hope  to  God  Daly '11  do  the  bastard  in  the  eye," 
Crehan  muttered  savagely,  with  no  care  for  the  accuracy 
of  his  epithet. 

"Out  of  respect  for  the  dead  we'll  do  no  business  to- 
day," the  bishop  went  on,  "except  dinner,  which  will,  of 
course,  be  at  the  usual  hour.  The  deceased  deserves  all 
the  consideration  we  can  show  him.  The  body  will  be 
taken  to  the  Cathedral  to-day  and  will  lie  there  in  state 
till  the  Requiem  at  9  on  Saturday." 

"The  lord  must  have  wind  of  the  will.  He's  getting  a 
big  wad,  no  doubt,"  Father  Griffin  muttered. 

"There  is  a  will,  I  suppose,  my  lord?"  Father  Lynch 
asked  innocently. 

All  ears  were  pricked.  The  bishop  gave  a  self-satisfied 
smile. 

"  Certainly.  Father  Daly  was  punctilious  in  regard  to 
the  diocesan  regulations — in  everything  indeed.  As  are 
all  your  wills,  it  is  lodged  with  me.  You  might  fetch  it, 
Father  Carberry,  from  the  palace.  This  is  a  suitable 
occasion  to  open  and  read  it." 

"As  if  he  hadn't  steamed  it  and  read  it  long  ago," 
Father  Crehan  muttered. 

"He,  he,  he,"  Father  Lynch  laughed.     "It'd  be  a  joke 


20  Conquest 

if  it  was  like  mine — a  blank  sheet  of  paper.  The  bulk  of 
'em  are  I  believe." 

There  was  a  titter  among  the  group  within  hearing  of 
the  whisper. 

"No levity,  gentlemen,  on  so  solemn  an  occasion,"  the 
bishop  said  sharply. 

" I  wonder  how  much  he  left,  my  lord?"  Father  Lynch 
asked  eagerly. 

"I've  no  idea,"  the  bishop  said,  in  a  tone  that  invited 
discussion,  curiosity  in  his  eyes. 

"He  got  Drisheen — let  me  see — it  was  the  year  of  the 
Deasy  Land  Act  I  think — or  was  it  the  year  after?  Yes, 
thirty-five  years  ago  it  was,"  Father  Griffin  said  medita- 
tively, in  morose  enjoyment,  "and  it  was  then  he  took 
that  miserly  turn." 

"Frugal,  Father  Griffin,  frugal  is  the  more  fitting 
word — in  a  priest,"  the  bishop  said  gently. 

"Would  you  believe  it,  my  lord,  he  gave  up  drinking 
and  smoking — there  was  a  hero  for  you,"  Father  Lynch 
said,  in  ecstatic  wonder. 

"Two  hundred  a  year  clear  off  the  grass  alone,"  Father 
Crehan,  drawn  back  to  Drisheen  as  by  a  magnet,  calcu- 
lated, "and  thirty-five  times  that  is  seven  thousand,  and 
then  there  was  interest,  and  interest  on  interest  and  what 
not — on  the  score  of  the  grass  and  the  bullocks  alone 
there  must  be  at  least  twelve  thousand." 

"And  all  that  only  an  extra  as  it  were,"  Father  Griffin 
said  gloomily.  ' '  There  were  the  dues  and  the  masses  and 
the  regular  pickings  in  births,  marriages,  and  funerals — 
Drisheen  is  no  barren  cow." 

"There  was  his  upkeep  to  be  taken  out  of  that,"  Father 
Crehan  said  carelessly,  with  an  effort  to  conceal  his 
anxiety. 

Father  Lynch  laughed  shrilly.  "An  old  nanny  goat'd 
cost  more  to  keep,"  he  wheezed.  "Whitey  was  fed  on 


Conquest  21 

the  parish — Lenihan  gave  him  the  lock  of  oats  and  hay 
free.  Julia  Feeney  had  about  four  pounds  a  year  for 
most  of  her  life — maybe  six  or  eight  or  ten  latterly.  And 
the  food!  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  old  Pat  didn't 
make  a  profit  on  the  presents  he  got.  And  the  house 
cost  him  nothing.  It's  as  rich  as  Croesus  the  old 
miser  was,  and  if  he'd  only  the  sense  to  take  a  glass  o' 
punch  or  two  at  night  it's  alive  maybe  he'd  be  now  to 
enjoy  it." 

"Put  it  at  thirty  thousand  altogether  at  the  under- 
side," Father  Griffin  said  moodily. 

"Compound  interest  and  all,  it's  more  I  tell  you," 
Father  Lynch  said,  combatively. 

The  whole  room  held  its  breath.  Father  Crehan 
emitted  his  in  a  long,  deep  sigh. 

The  bishop  gazed  at  the  ceiling  abstractedly.  "Dri- 
sheen  is  a  very  desirable  parish,"  he  said,  after  a  long 
pause. 

"You  bid  too  low,  Crehan,  my  boy,"  Dunphy  whis- 
pered, with  a  chuckle. 

"Whist,  can't  you?  He  might  give  a  hint  as  to  how 
the  land  lies,"  Crehan  murmured  excitedly. 

"  It's  not  in  your  direction,  anyhow,"  Dunphy  said  con- 
solingly. "You  headed  yourself  off  it,  sonny.  And  he 
didn't  even  say  'thank  you,'  for  the  ha'porth  of  tar." 

"  It's  time  Father  Carberry  was  back,"  the  bishop  said, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "I  must > take  advantage  of  the 
unexpected  respite  to  clear  off  some  work  before  dinner. 
And  no  doubt,"  jocosely,  "some  of  you  rich  farmers  will 
like  to  have  a  look  at  the  market.  I  seem  to  be  the  only 
poor  man  among  you." 

He  smiled  broadly,  and  added,  with  a  nice  mixture  of 
fun  and  seriousness,  "If  you  are  making  such  large 
revenues  I  think  your  contribution  to  me  should  be 
increased." 


22  Conquest 

There  was  some  hollowness  in  the  laughter  that  greeted 
the  episcopal  sally.  Legs  and  arms  wriggled  uneasily. 

"Sure  all  rivers  flow  into  the  sea  in  the  end,  my  lord," 
Fathei  Lynch  said,  with  enthusiasm.  "No  doubt 
Father  Pat  has  remembered  you  handsomely.  It's  a 
temptation  we'd  all  have  in  making  our  wills.  No 
doubt  he's  left  us  all  a  little  solatium  to  say  masses  for  the 
good  of  his  soul,  but  the  bulk  of  it  is  sure  to  go  to  your 
lordship." 

"He  was  a  good  priest,"  the  bishop  said  blandly. 

"He  might  have  thought  of  his  family,"  Father  Griffin 
said  lugubriously. 

"His  family!"  Father  Lynch  said  hotly.  "He  never 
gave  'em  a  stiver  and  he  alive,  and  it's  thinking  of  his 
soul  he'd  be  and  he  dead.  No  fear.  Did  he  do  a  hand's 
turn  for  his  brother,  young  Pierce,  and  he  up  to  his  neck 
in  Scarty  with  Pierce  the  Rake's  debts?  And  Theobald 
that  he  doted  on — he  wouldn't  give  him  a  five-pound  note 
to  save  him  from  hell — saving  your  pardon,  my  lord. 
No,  take  my  word  for  it,  it'll  all  go  to  God — to  his  lord- 
ship here  and  to  the  building  fund  and  to  the  Seminary, 
and  a  little  lock  to  us  for  the  masses  that'll  keep  his  soul 
easy." 

The  door  opened  and  all  eyes  turned  eagerly,  but  it 
was  only  Father  Lysaght. 

"Well?"  the  bishop  asked. 

Father  Lysaght  took  his  seat.  "Apoplexy  and  a  weak 
heart,"  he  said  quietly.  "The  doctor  thinks  an  inquest 
unnecessary.  I've  seen  the  police  inspector  and  he 
agrees." 

"Of  course,"  the  bishop  nodded  approval.  "That 
was  to  be  expected — fitting  deference  to  the  Church. 
The  authorities  are  always  to  be  relied  on." 

"I'll  consult  the  family  before  making  arrangements 
for  the  funeral  and " 


Conquest  23 

Father  Lysaght  began,  but  the  bishop  interrupted 
caustically  : 

"The  family  are  of  no  importance.  I  have  made  the 
arrangements.  Father  Carberry  will  give  you  the 
details.  He  should  be  here  now  with  the  will." 

"Surely  the  family — "  Father  L}saght  said,  with  a 
frown. 

The  bishop  interrupted  him  sharply : 

"I  don't  need  to  remind  you  that  I  am  the  bishop — but 
here  is  Father  Carberry." 

Father  Lysaght  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gazed 
grimly  at  the  polished  table. 

The  bishop  tore  open  the  envelope,  and  unfolded  the 
single  sheet  of  foolscap.  Gradually  a  heavy  frown 
gathered  on  his  brow.  His  purple  face  paled,  then  went  a 
deeper  purple.  The  paper  shook  a  little  in  his  hands. 
He  continued  to  gaze  at  it  in  horror  long  after  he  had 
finished  reading  it.  He  rose  abruptly  from  his  seat, 
crumpling  the  will  between  nervous  fingers.  Seizing  his 
biretta,  he  threw  the  will  on  the  table,  said  roughly, 
"Read  it  to  them  you,  Father  Carberry,"  and  stalked,  as 
majestically  as  his  angry  bulk  allowed,  out  of  the  room, 
slamming  the  door  behind  him. 

"What  the  hell's  wrong  with  the  old  man?"  lisped 
Father  Carberry,  a  fair,  slim  young  man,  in  a  very  high 
clerical  collar  and  very  long  white  cuffs. 

"Read  it,  man — read  it,  read  it,"  Father  Lynch  said, 
rising  in  his  seat. 

"The  will — the  will!"  was  shouted  from  all  round  the 
table. 

Father  Carberry  took  up  the  will  gingerly,  pushed  up 
his  cuffs,  smiled  tolerantly  at  a  "Damn  the  ass,  why 
doesn't  he  read  it?"  and  ran  his  eyes  quickly  over  the 
paper. 

"Why  don't  you  read  it  aloud,  man?"  Father  Lynch 


24  Conquest 

said  vehemently,  stretching  out  his  hand  as  if  to 
grab. 

"No,  you  don't,"  Carberry  said  quietly,  stepping  back 
a  pace.  "There's  nothing  to  fuss  about  really,"  with  a 
surprised  look  at  the  eager  face.  "It's  all  quite  simple. 
Everything  goes  to  the  boy,  Jim  Daly.  His  mother  and 
Lysaght  there  are  executors." 

The  flies,  buzzing  about  the  room,  could  have  freely 
entered  a  score  of  priestly  mouths. 

"Nothing  to  the  bishop  or  the  Cathedral  or  the 
Seminary?"  Father  Lynch  said,  in  a  series  of  gasps. 

"Not  a  rap.  He  mentions  the  Cathedral  rather 
funnily.  Says  it's  an  eyesore  and  unnecessary  and  a 
reflection  on  the  Dalys  who  built  the  old  one,  and  recom- 
mends Jim  to  subscribe  towards  pulling  it  down  if  he 
ever  gets  the  chance." 

"There's  some  sense  in  that  anyway,"  Father  Griffin 
said  with  a  dreary  chuckle. 

"No  trifle  even  for  masses?"  Father  Lynch  said  in  an 
exhausted  tone. 

"He  says  he's  sure  you'll  all  say  them  for  him  of  your 
charity,"  Carberry  said  with  a  grin. 

"The  bloody  miser,"  Father  Lynch  managed  to  say, 
with  a  last  effort. 

"Dinner  at  three,  gentlemen,"  Father  Lysaght  said 
coldly. 

Ill 

The  Owneybeg  river,  emerging  from  the  hills  through 
Rathvalley  Glen,  descended  by  gently  sloping  uplands 
to  the  rich  plain  that  stretched  south  to  Lisgeela.  At  the 
juncture  of  plain  and  upland,  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
river,  the  Dalyhouse  demesne  ran  upwards,  the  house 
standing  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  Lisgeela  gate. 


Conquest  25 

Across  the  river  on  the  left  bank,  marching  with  the  river 
and  altogether  in  the  plain,  was  Scarty  farm.  The  main 
road  from  Tubber  to  Lisgeela  had  Daly  house  on  its  left, 
crossed  the  river  and  had  Scarty  on  its  right.  A  good 
thrower  could  cast  a  stone  from  the  white  wooden  gate  of 
Scarty  cottage  to  the  limestone  wolf-hounds  that  sur- 
mounted the  pillars  of  the  wrought-iron  gates  of  the 
Lisgeela  avenue  of  Dalyhouse. 

Most  people  who  passed  by  Scarty  called  it  a  charm- 
ing cottage.  It  stood  back  about  sixty  yards  from  the 
gate,  was  thatched  and  had  mansard  windows  in  the 
roof.  In  June  the  front  of  the  house  was  a  mass  of  roses. 
Thirty  yards  from  the  entrance  the  short  drive  forked  off 
on  the  right  to  the  farmyard  which  was  hidden  by  a  thick 
hedge  of  juniper.  Since  Theobald  Daly's  death  the  drive 
to  the  yard  was  practically  unused  and  grass-grown ;  the 
farm,  except  the  lawn  and  garden,  having  been  let  at 
three  pounds  ten  an  acre  to  a  Lisgeela  butcher  for  grass- 
fattening.  The  cottage  was  four-square  with  a  diminu- 
tive open  court  in  the  centre.  On  three  sides  the  house 
gave  on  the  lawn,  which  ran  to  the  river  on  the  side 
opposite  the  main  entrance — a  ridiculous  little  Gothic 
porch  trellised  in  roses. 

Two  old  cedar  trees,  with  wide-spreading  branches, 
stood  between  the  house  and  the  river,  and  under  the 
shade  of  one  of  them,  in  an  old  wicker  chair,  Pierce  Daly 
sat,  reading  the  Freeman's  Journal.  In  a  similar  chair 
only  more  decrepit,  a  few  feet  distant  from  him,  sat 
Arabella,  his  daughter-in-law,  busily  tacking  a  boy's 
navy  blue  pants  which  she  had  apparently  just  cut  out 
on  the  small  deal  table  in  front  of  her. 

"  I  seem  to  make  them  and  make  them,"  she  said,  with 
a  smile,  half  cynical  but  wholly  tender,  on  her  curved 
lips. 

"You  do  then,"  he  said  gently,  laying  the  paper  on  his 


26  Conquest 

knees  and  looking  at  the  river.  "Sure  they  run  through 
a  power  of  'em  at  his  age.  Stick  to  the  corduroy,  Ara- 
bella. It  lasts." 

He  glanced  approvingly  at  his  own  corduroy  knee 
breeches,  grey  woollen  stockings,  and  black  brogues, 
soiled  with  garden  clay. 

She  bit  off  an  end  of  tacking  thread,  held  up  the 
garment,  and  screwed  her  sad  but  smiling  face  to  take 
in  the  proportions. 

"I  always  get  it  wrong — the  right  leg  is  longer  than  the 
left.  Why,  you  bought  the  stuff  yourself,  father." 

"Did  I  then?  Well,  well.  He's  a  fair  caution,  that 
gossoon.  A  good  licking  with  an  ash  plant  he  wants. 
What  did  he  do  yesterday  morning  before  you  were  up 
but  climb  the  big  elm  beyond  to  the  nest  on  the  top." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  little  shiver.  "I  hope  you 
spanked  him  well." 

"He  was  that  disappointed  that  the  young  ones  had 
gone  away  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  do  it,"  he  said 
shamefacedly.  "And,  would  you  believe  it,  Arabella?" 
pleasure  and  pride  creeping  into  his  voice,  "  I  used  to  try 
for  the  nest  on  the  top  of  that  very  tree  when  I  was  his 
age  and  sorra  one  of  me  could  do  it — not  till  I  was  near 
twelve.  And  I  was  no  bad  hand  at  them  kind  of  tricks. 
And  it's  not  any  the  easier  with  the  growth  there's  on  it 
since." 

"  He's  a  handful,"  she  said,  in  a  resigned  tone. 

"You're  too  soft  with  him,  Arabella,  too  soft.  We 
must  be  severe.  It's  the  only  way  in  the  long  run. 
What's  keeping  the  boy  at  all  ?  He  ought  to  be  home 
long  ago.  I  must  go  and  trim  up  that  row  o'  peas." 

She  sewed  steadily.  He  took  up  the  paper  again,  read 
a  few  lines,  put  it  down,  and  got  up  restlessly. 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  look  down  the  road  to  see  if  he's 
coming,"  he  said  apologetically. 


Conquest  27 

"Do.  But  he's  all  right.  And  we'd  hear  the  pony, 
anyhow." 

She  put  her  sewing  on  her  lap  and  watched  him  walk 
across  the  green  turf  to  the  copper  beech  from  which  there 
was  a  view  of  the  Lisgeela  Road.  He  was  the  best  look- 
ing of  the  handsome  Dalys.  An  icy  hand  seemed  to 
touch  her.  She  shivered  and  crouched  a  little  in  her  seat. 
She  clenched  her  hand  resolutely.  She  must  train  herself 
to  think  of  Theobald  without  this — and  after  four  years 
too.  Yes,  Theobald  would  have  been  like  his  father. 
Father  Pat  was  a  handsome  man  but  they  were  slimmer 
and  harder.  What  would  Jim 

She  heard  a  faint  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  and  smiled. 
The  old  man  hurried  back,  the  ends  of  his  white  flannel 
bawneen  loose  and  flapping.  His  blue  eyes  gleamed 
above  a  complexion  fresh  as  a  boy's,  shaded  to  the  tip 
of  his  fine  nose  by  an  old  rush  hat. 

"He's  coming,"  he  said  carelessly,  sitting  again,  and 
taking  up  the  paper. 

"He  was  told  not  to  gallop  on  the  road,"  she  said 
severely. 

"  It's  a  way  children  have  of  forgetting  things,"  he  said, 
wriggling  uneasily. 

And  he  was  a  stern  old  man,  too,  not  really  old,  of 
course,  she  thought,  placidly  sewing  her  thoughts  into  the 
stuff.  He  was  still  lithe  and  active.  He  had  been  strict 
and  stern  with  Theobald  to  the  end.  But  never  with  her. 
And  with  Jim?  That  was  a  great  joke.  Were  all  strict 
fathers  weak  with  their  grandchildren? 

"What!"  she  said  aloud,  in  amazement. 

A  pony  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house  at  full 
gallop,  took  the  path  leading  to  the  vegetable  garden 
and  the  herbaceous  border  in  a  flying  leap,  shedding  a 
boy's  cap  on  the  top  of  a  brilliant  anchusa.  The  forefeet 
stopped  dead  within  a  foot  of  the  table. 


28  Conquest 

"Really,  Jim,  this  is  going  beyond  the  beyonds,"  his 
mother  said  angrily. 

"It's — it's  a  bit  uncalled  for,"  his  grandfather  mut- 
tered, with  an  admiring  look  at  the  flushed  boy. 

"What  is,  mother?"  the  boy  asked,  his  blue  eyes  open- 
ing in  wide  innocence. 

The  blend  of  surprise,  mild  worry,  and  entire  uncon- 
sciousness of  any  offence  made  it  a  struggle  to  maintain 
her  sternness. 

"You  know  it's  not  allowed — and  all  your  grand- 
father's trouble  with  the  flower  beds." 

"Oh— I  forgot." 

There  was  sorrow  in  his  voice  and  look.  Then,  to  his 
grandfather,  in  protest : 

"As  if  Crabbit  could  make  a  mistake!" 

"He  cleared  it  by  at  least  two  feet,"  his  grandfather 
said  proudly. 

"  There,  mother,"  Jim  said,  without  too  much  triumph. 

She  held  him  by  love.  When  she  gave  reasons  she 
failed,  she  meditated,  her  eyes  drinking  in  the  colour  at 
the  nape  of  his  neck,  where  the  light  gold  of  the  short 
silky  hair  shone  on  the  brown-gold  of  the  tan.  She 
passed  her  fingers  through  the  thick  tousled  hair  falling 
anyhow  over  his  forehead. 

"There,  now.  I  forgot  with  all  the  fuss,"  he  said 
abruptly,  excitement  in  his  eyes.  "I  wouldn't  have 
galloped  on  the  grass,  of  course,  only  for  that.  Uncle 
Pat  is  dead.  The  whole  town  is  full  of  it.  Died  sitting 
in  his  trap  in  front  of  Father  Lysaght's  door.  They  had 
it  in  the  college  before  play-time.  Tom  Dillon  whispered 
it  to  me  at  French  lesson.  And  at  play-time  a  lot  of  the 
boys  ran  down  the  town  to  catch  a  sight  of  him,  but  they 
had  him  gone.  The  funeral's  on  Saturday.  I  didn't  go 
down  to  see  'cause  you  told  me  not  to  be  gallivanting 
round,  grandfather.  Father  Macdonald  came  in  for  a 


Conquest  29 

Latin  lesson  after  play-time  and  he  called  me  up  and  told 
me.  'You,  young  shaver,'  he  said,  'you're  left  a  pot  of 
money.'" 

"Poor  Father  Pat.  So  sudden,  too,"  his  mother 
said. 

His  grandfather  stared  at  the  river  with  a  set  face,  and 
said  nothing. 

"  It  was  sudden,  Father  Macdonald  said,  but,  of  course, 
being  a  priest,  not  unprovided,"  Jim  continued  eagerly, 
treating  the  "unprovided"  with  care  and  watching  his 
mother  to  see  how  she  took  it.  As  it  seemed  all  right,  he 
went  on  breathlessly:  "And  Mr.  Mallon,  the  grocer,  ran 
out  and  caught  Crabbit  by  the  reins  and  I  passing  home, 
and  said,  as  sure  as  death,  he  was  the  only  one  that  saw  it 
happen  through  the  corner  of  his  eye  through  the  shop 
window,  only  it  didn't  strike  him  at  the  time.  He  saw 
Father  Pat  fall  back  a  little  over  the  back  rest  of  the  trap, 
and  Whitey  make  as  if  to  stop.  And  he  said  to  himself 
it's  a  queer  thing  to  stop  and  he  only  coming  into  town. 
And  then  he  bethought  him  that  it  was  only  last  week  he  had 
the  half  pound  of  tea  and  the  two  pounds  of  sugar,  and 
that  he  wasn't  due  for  a  month  again — the  custom  being 
hardly  worth  handling  only  for  the  honour  of  serving  a 
Daly  and  he  a  priest,  too.  And  just  at  that  very  minute 
he  got  a  big  order  for  bacon  and  took  his  eyes  off  the 
street,  and  when  he  looked  again  Whitey  was  gone,  and, 
in  the  hurry  of  the  market,  the  whole  thing  passed  from 
his  mind.  And  he'll  regret  to  his  dying  day,  he  said,  the 
chance  that  Providence  proffered  him  of  being  the  first 
to  discover  him  lying  there  dead  in  the  car.  And  he  said, 
too,  that  I  was  left  heaps  of  money  and  the  whole  town 
was  glad  of  it,  though  the  bishop  took  it  badly.  But  what 
could  you  expect  of  a  man,  though  he  was  a  bishop  itself, 
that  dealt  for  the  bulk  of  his  things  at  MacGinty's — and 
the  less  said  about  MacGinty's  groceries  the  better." 


30  Conquest 

He  paused,  conscious  of  inattention.  He  looked,  a 
little  resentfully,  first  at  his  mother,  then  at  his  grand- 
father; but  his  mother's  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  grand- 
father, and  his  grandfather  was  staring  at  the  river, 
neither,  seemingly,  listening  to  a  word  he  said. 

He  pitched  his  voice  higher:  "And  I  passed  Father 
Lysaght  on  the  road,  driving  out  here  on  Pagan's  side- 
car." 

" Did  he  give  you  any  particulars?"  his  mother  asked. 

"I  asked  him  if  he  was  bringing  me  out  the  pot  of 
money,  but  he  only  said:  'Trot  on  home,  you  young 
gadfly,'  and  of  course  I  galloped,  and  that's  why  I  tore 
across  the  lawn  and  jumped  the  beds." 

His  mother  kissed  his  firm  cheek  at  the  ear,  brushing  the 
soft  down  lightly  with  her  lips.  She  drew  him  to  her  and 
buried  her  face  for  a  moment  in  his  hair  sticky  with 
sweat. 

"Run  away  now,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  push,  as  if 
she  had  to  wrench  herself  from  him.  "Put  up  Crabbit, 
and  have  your  meal.  You  may  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  us 
here  afterwards,  and  tell  Susan  to  bring  a  cup  for  Father 
Lysaght." 

"  Do  you  think,  mother,  that  he  has  the  pot  of  money 
in  the  car?" 

"Run  away,  now,  child,"  she  said  firmly. 

He  looked  expectantly  at  his  grandfather,  but  seeing 
no  encouragement  there,  sighed  deeply,  gathered  up  the 
reins,  and  led  Crabbit  across  the  grass. 

She  looked  again  at  her  father-in-law  but  he  had  not 
moved.  She  took  up  her  sewing  and  stitched  rapidly. 
Theobald  was  like  that — he  thought  a  thing  out  and  then 
he  might  speak  or  he  mightn't.  The  Levins  talked  first 
and  thought,  if  they  thought  at  all,  afterwards.  She 
was  happy — as  happy  as  she  could  ever  be  without  Theo- 
bald. But  if  there  was  that  money  ?  She  wished  Father 


Conquest  31 

Lysaght  would  come.  Would  it  be  enough  to  send  Jim 
to  a  good  school?  He  was  wasting  his  time  at  that 
ridiculous  college  at  Lisgeela  where  Father  Macdonald, 
who  couldn't  pronounce  a  word  of  it  properly,  taught 
French — and  Latin,  and  other  things.  She  supposed  he 
knew  Latin — there  was  such  a  lot  of  it  in  the  mass. 
But  to  call  it  a  college — it  was  more  like  a  hedge  school. 
"I  think  I'll  go  now  and  do  them  peas,"  Pierce  Daly 
said,  without  moving. 

"Do.  Unless  you  wait  and  have  tea  first.  Father 
Lysaght  is  coming,"  she  said  gently. 

"Poor  Pat,  'tis  he  was  always  the  queer  fellow.  He 
was  a  good  man  enough  but  he  had  no  proper  pride  in 
him,"  he  said  meditatively. 

She  laughed:  "He  was  the  proudest  man  I  ever  knew. 
With  him  a  Daly  ranked  above  the  Cherubim — if  not 
higher,"  she  said  slyly. 

"Pooh,"  he  said,  half  tolerantly,  half  contemptuously. 
"Scraping  and  gathering  he  didn't  well  know  for  what, 
till  in  the  end  he  was  fonder  of  a  sovereign  than  he  was 
of  the  name  and  blood  he  was  toiling  and  moiling  for. 
What  did  he  ever  do  for  it  except  to  get  the  name  of  a 
miser  ?  God  knows  I  had  more  respect  for  my  father  that 
often  wasted  near  as  much  in  a  year  as  Pat  gathered  in  a 
lifetime.  He  had  the  open  hand  of  the  Dalys.  What 
matter  if  he  drank  himself  to  death?  He  used  to  sit 
there  despising  me  for  the  way  I  worked  early  and  late  to 
keep  a  roof  over  his  head,  and  not  caring  a  thraneen  for 
all  he  had  lost.  And  old  Bertram  Scovell  was  afeared  of 
him,  and  gave  him  the  road  till  the  day  of  his  death. 
Poor  Pat's  pride !  It  never  led  to  anything  but  to  make 
a  scarecrow  of  himself  to  frighten  the  birds  with  between 
Drisheen  and  Lisgeela,  with  his  old  hat  and  his  old  pony, 
and  he  afraid  to  look  at  a  beefsteak  for  fear  he'd  be 
tempted  to  buy  it.  May  God  forgive  me  for  speaking 


32  Conquest 

light  of  the  dead — the  Lord  have  mercy  on  him.  And, 
sure,  if  he  hadn't  any  real  pride  in  him,  he'll  have  the 
less  to  answer  for  before  the  Throne  of  God.  You 
wouldn't  think  I  had  any  pride  in  me,  Arabella?"  he 
added,  after  a  pause. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  said  gently,  with  an  affectionate 
smile,  letting  her  eyes  wander  over  the  unbent  figure,  the 
long,  straight  nose  with  slightly  curved  nostrils,  the  taut 
muscles  of  the  bronzed  throat,  unrestrained  by  a  collar. 

"Being  full  of  proper  pride  yourself,  of  course  you'd 
understand,"  he  said  admiringly.  "Well,  I  have — I'm 
as  chock  full  of  it  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat.  Poor  Pat'd 
have  been  Daly  of  Dalyhouse  and  he  did  nothing  all  his 
life  but  whistle  down  the  wind  after  it.  But  I  had  the 
solid  earth  of  Scarty  under  my  feet  and  I  tried  to  make 
the  most  of  it.  I  had  my  own  freehold,  but  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  be  a  peasant  and  cock  of  my  own  dunghill, 
and  not  be  hanging  on  the  skirts  of  the  gentry.  I  was 
one  of  'em,  you  see,  so  it  didn't  hurt  me  to  despise  'em. 
My  mother,  God  rest  her,  used  to  have  fits  over  my  way 
of  talking  that  I  picked  up  from  a  servant  man  we  had  by 
the  name  of  Paudheen  Mick — Herlihy  I  believe  his  real 
name  was — and  it  soon  became  second  nature  to  me.  I 
wore  a  flannel  bawneen  instead  of  a  coat,  except  on  Sun- 
days or  maybe  at  a  Fair,  and  the  same  with  a  collar.  I 
married  Ann  Driscoll,  the  rose  of  Dunkerrin  they  called 
her,  and  a  good  wife  she  made  for  me.  It  was  in  her 
blood  to  hate  the  landlords  and  the  English — they  were 
all  one  to  her.  With  myself  I  never  rightly  knew 
whether  it  was  love  of  Ireland  or  hatred  of  the  Scovells 
that  moved  me  most,  for  I  never  forgot  the  dirty  trick 
Bertram  Scovell  played  on  my  father  over  the  mortgage, 
and  they  bosom  friends  as  it  were.  Within  in  the  parlour 
you  see  hanging  up  the  Act  of  Parliament  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  indemnifying  the  Dalys  agin  the  penal  laws 


Conquest  33 

because  of  their  kindness  to  poor  Protestants  in  the 
Jacobite  wars  before  Dutch  William  could  come  to  their 
aid.  It  was  how  the  Daly  of  that  time  took  over  Tully- 
fin,  the  property  that  Cromwell  had  made  a  grant  of  to 
the  Scovells,  and  handed  it  back  to  'em  without  a  penny 
missing  when  the  troubled  times  were  over — all  through 
friendship.  Thick  as  thieves  they  were,  and  sure,  it's 
little  better  than  thieves  either  the  Dalys  or  Scovells 
were  in  them  days,  but  fast  friends  for  all  that.  If  the 
Dalys  lent  a  hand  to  the  Scovells  in  the  reign  of  James, 
the  Scovells  did  the  same  by  the  Dalys  in  the  reign  of 
Anne.  And  so  on  down  to  '35  when  a  bad  strain  showed 
in  Bertram  Scovell.  It  wasn't  the  loss  of  Dalyhouse  for  a 
song  my  father  minded,  for  sure  he  had  his  day,  but  the 
heart-scald  of  a  friend  going  back  on  him.  There  was  a 
trifle,  I  believe,  of  my  father  beating  out  Bertram  Scovell 
over  my  mother  in  the  way  of  marriage.  My  father 
made  light  of  it  and  was  as  friendly  as  ever,  but  Bertram 
nursed  his  grievance  in  his  black  heart  and  struck  when 
he  got  the  chance.  And  my  father  never  made  any 
effort  to  gather  the  money  to  meet  the  blow  of  the  fore- 
closure, not  believing  it  could  happen  till  it  was  all  over. 
My  father  soon  forgot  it  all  in  the  fumes  of  poteen,  and 
my  mother  and  Pat  talked  and  talked  but  broke  no  bones. 
But  from  the  day  that  I  was  able  to  think  for  myself — 
and  I  began  it  early — I've  been  paying  back  the  Scovell 
score.  Never  in  the  way  of  meanness  or  trickery,  for  I'd 
scorn  the  like,  but  always  in  open  fight.  Three  gener- 
ations of  'em  I've  been  up  against  and  now  the  fourth  is 
growing  around  Derek  Scovell's  knees.  I've  hurt  'em 
in  their  pride  and  in  their  pocket,  in  their  politics  and 
their  religion — wherever  I  thought  one  of  'em'd  feel  the 
blow  most.  I  used  to  go  to  Repeal  Meetings  and  I 
hardly  able  to  walk  the  ten  miles  to  Tubber  and  back 
because  Scovell  tried  to  keep  the  people  from  going.  I 


34  Conquest 

was  a  Young  Irelander  in  '48,  and  a  Fenian  in  '65.  Well 
I  remember  how  young  Bertram,  who  ruled  there  then, 
had  Dalyhouse  barricaded  with  iron  shutters.  He  was 
near  out  of  his  mind  with  terror,  and  the  people  laughing 
at  him,  knowing  well  that  no  matter  what  happened  I 
wouldn't  let  a  stone  of  Dalyhouse  be  touched.  I  tell  you 
we  put  the  fear  of  God  into  the  English,  but  it  was  their 
garrison  here,  the  Scovells  and  the  Levins  and  the  like, 
that  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of  it — no  doubt  you  heard 
tell  of  it  in  your  father's  house — and  wherever  there  was 
trouble  for  the  English  or  a  landlord  I  was  at  the  head 
and  front  of  it,  and  glad  the  people  were  to  have  a  Daly 
for  a  leader.  Poor  Pat'd  never  have  got  the  pleasure  out 
of  Dalyhouse  that  I  got  out  of  Scarty.  The  Scovells 
hated  us  to  be  in  it  from  the  very  first.  There  we  were 
sitting  at  their  gate,  as  it  were,  and  holding  our  heads 
higher  than  ever  they  could  lift  theirs  as  far  as  the  people 
were  concerned.  I  made  the  house  and  place  an  eyesore 
to  them.  I  learnt  thatching  and  a  power  about  flowers 
and  I  grew  the  things  they  couldn't  grow  just  to  spite  'em. 
If  scowls  could  wither  the  place  it'd  be  blasted  long  ago, 
and  their  eyes  never  off  it  and  they  in  and  out  to  Lisgeela. 
And  when  young  Bertram — you  remember  the  crooked 
nose  he  had  to  the  day  of  his  death  ?  I  gave  him  that  in 
fair  fight  and  I  about  Jim's  age.  Well,  when  he  married 
Lady  Alice  Travers  that  was  great  at  the  proselytizing,  I 
put  up  that  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  the  niche  in 
our  wall  near  the  bridge,  and  Ann  Driscoll,  God  be  good 
to  her,  used  to  put  fresh  flowers  in  front  of  it  every  day. 
For  many  a  year  Lady  Alice  couldn't  bear  the  look  of  it 
and  used  to  drive  into  Lisgeela  by  the  Tubber  Gate  and 
go  by  Lisheen,  a  round  of  six  miles  and  a  bad  road. 

"But  these  were  small  things.  It  was  over  the  land 
that  I  got  back  on  them  most.  Davitt  or  Parnell  or 
Dillon  or  O'Brien,  whichever  of  'em  struck  the  hardest 


Conquest  35 

blow  I  favoured,  and  I  carried  the  people  with  me.  The 
Dalyhouse  tenants  always  abided  by  my  word  and  the 
Scovells'  own  old  tenants  at  Tullyfin  weren't  backward. 
I  couldn't  tell  you  how  many  years'  rent  the  Scovells  lost 
through  the  Plan  of  Campaign  and  the  like.  It  wasn't 
the  money  they  felt  so  much,  for  they  had  plenty  of  it, 
but  the  blow  to  their  pride  and  the  breaking  of  their  power 
and  the  knowledge  they  had  that  I  was  in  it  all.  That's 
no  bad  record,  Arabella,  but  the  hardest  blow  ever  struck 
by  a  Daly  on  a  Scovell  was  when  Theobald  brought  you 
in  here  on  the  floor  to  me.  I  felt,  with  the  heart-break 
it  was  to  Derek  Scovell,  that  God  in  His  goodness  could 
hardly  do  any  more  for  me." 

His  blazing  eyes  softened  as  they  rested  upon  her. 

"  So  I  was  just  a  red  rag  to  the  Scovells,"  she  said,  with 
a  slight  shudder. 

"You  were  all  that,"  he  said  grimly.  "But  sorra 
much  Theobald  thought  about  it  and  he  head  over  ears 
in  love  with  you.  And,  God  forgive  me,  it's  little  enough 
I  thought  about  it  after  the  first  month  or  two  and  you  the 
best  daughter  ever  a  man  had.  But  that  must  be  Father 
Lysaght  coming — I'd  know  the  Saturday  canter  of 
Pagan's  old  mare  anywhere.  Poor  Pat — poor  Pat!  I 
mind  once  when  he  gave  me  his  old  penknife  with  the 
broken  blade  that  I  had  for  twenty  year,  and  he  not  having 
another.  'Tis  he  was  the  generous  lad." 

Arabella  folded  up  her  sewing,  her  eyes  on  a  turbulent 
little  stream  that  merged  quietly  near  the  bridge  into  the 
broad,  smooth-flowing  Owneybeg.  It  was  so  that  hatred 
sometimes  lost  itself  in  love,  gently,  almost  without  effort. 
How  she  had  ignored  Theobald,  despised  him,  hated  him 
— and  then  ?  There  was  her  father-in-law  with  his  little 
bundle  of  hates;  and  her  own  father  at  Lissyfad  with  his: 
mere  bundles  of  Green  and  Orange  misunderstandings 
and  pitiful  spites.  They  were  blind  and  couldn't  see. 


36  Conquest 

How  alike  they  were,  too,  in  all  essentials,  generous,  lov- 
able, different  though  they  thought  themselves.  Would 
love,  the  solvent,  ever  do  for  them  what  it  had  done 
for  her? 

"  I  must  go  and  find  out  what's  keeping  Susan  with  the 
tea,"  she  said,  with  a  mothering  smile  at  the  old  man. 

IV 

Jim  Daly  stormed  into  the  kitchen  where  Susan  Roche, 
her  overflowing  body  mainly  kept  together  by  her  tight 
apron-strings,  was  "lifting"  a  crisp  cake  from  a  bastable 
on  the  open  hearth. 

"You  near  made  it  drop  from  my  hands,  you  young 
ruffian,  you,"  she  said  amiably. 

"My!  What  a  scrump,  Susan,  and  raisins  in  it,"  he 
said  breathlessly,  wriggling  on  one  foot,  and  sniffing 
appreciatively.  "I  can  have  a  piece  with  my  dinner, 
can't  I,  Susan?" 

"  Is  it  me  to  broach  it,  and  under  the  eyes  of  the  Missis 
too,"  she  said  severely. 

"Oh,"  he  said  dejectedly,  making  a  quick  change  to 
the  other  foot. 

"But  maybe,"  she  said  with  a  relenting  smile,  "if 
you'd  ate  your  dinner  hearty,  it's  a  young  puppy  of  a 
cake  that  I  baked  all  for  yourself  on  top  of  the  cover,  that 
you'd  be  finding  on  the  corner  of  the  dresser  beyond." 

He  made  a  jump  for  the  dresser,  gave  a  long-drawn 
"Oh,  Susan — thanks,  thanks,"  seized  the  cake,  and, 
admiringly,  held  it  up  level  with  his  eyes.  "Now  that 
I've  a  pot  of  money,  we'll  have  plum  cake  every  day,"  he 
said,  nibbling  a  raisin. 

"Whatever  is  the  boy  romancing  about?"  Susan  said, 
busying  herself  with  a  covered  dish  beside  the  fire.  ' '  Run 
away  into  the  room,  now,  and  don't  be  keeping  the  fine 


Conquest  37 

dinner  cold  that  I'm  bringing  into  you  this  blessed 
minute." 

'"Bold  Robert  Emmet,  the  hero  of  Ireland,'"  he 
sang  with  thoughtful  slowness.  "And  I  tell  you  what, 
Susan,"  he  broke  into  prose,  "I'll  buy  the  black  and  white 
rabbits  Dick  Kavanagh  reared,  even  if  he  charges  sixpence 
apiece  for  'em,  and  a  hat  for  my  mother,  and  maybe  a 
shawl  for  you,  and  some  books  about  the  traitor  Eng. 
lish  for  my  grandfather.  There's  sure  to  be  enough 
money  for  all  that,"  he  added  doubtfully. 

"More  power  to  my  young  Fenian,"  Susan  said 
delightedly,  her  red  face  glowing  over  the  dish  which  she 
held  in  her  hands.  "Sure  'tis  you'll  give  the  dirty  Eng- 
lish a  dig  in  the  ribs  one  day — and  it's  richly  they'll  be 
deserving  of  it.  And  isn't  it  kind  grandfather  for  you 
to  be  down  on  'em — the  cowardly  priest  hunters.  But 
come  along  now,  agra,  and  be  eating  your  dinner.  You, 
with  your  talk  of  spending  all  that  money,  and  there's 
neither  sight  nor  leavings  of  your  tuppence  a  week  the 
evening  of  the  day  you  get  it.  A  shawl  for  me  indeed ! 
But  sure  it  was  the  good  heart  in  you  that  thought  of  me 
though  you  hadn't  the  money  itself.  And  I  didn't  stick 
another  lock  of  raisins  in  your  cakeen  beyond  what  I 
mixed  in  the  dough." 

"My  Uncle  Pat  is  dead,"  he  said  absently,  examining 
the  cake. 

She  opened  wide  her  mouth  and  eyes  and  gave  a  deep 
sigh.  "The  best  of  news  is  bad  for  a  weak  heart,"  she 
said,  releasing  one  hand  from  the  dish  and  supporting  her 
heaving  bosom.  "You  ought  to  have  told  me  at  the 
first  go  off,  and  not  break  it  to  me  all  of  a  sudden.  The 
poor  man!  May  heaven  be  his  bed  this  night.  To 
think  of  him  doing  anything  half  so  decent  as  to  die  in  the 
end.  And  to  leave  his  money  to  his  own  kin  too,  and 
not  for  baptizing  naygurs  in  foreign  parts.  I  don't 


38  Conquest 

grudge  him  the  shilling  he  never  left  in  my  palm,  and  he 
going  in  and  out  of  this  house  as  long  as  I  can  remember. 
Sure  it's  the  grand  funeral  he'll  have,  and  all  the  Scovell 
tenants  marching  behind  him,  just  as  if  they  was  his  own, 
as  heaven  knows  they  ought  to  be  if  he  only  had  his  rights, 
with  the  makings  of  a  linen  shirt  on  their  shoulders,  and 
a  yard  of  handkerchief  round  their  hats  in  respect  for  the 
dead.  It'll  be  a  great  sight,  glory  be  to  God.  But  come 
on,  agra — a  dinner,  and  it  off  the  fire,  won't  keep  hot  for 
the  living  or  the  dead." 

Jim  raced  through  his  meal  with  intense  excitement. 
He  ate  plum  cake  with  meat  with  evident  enjoyment. 
He  decided,  if  the  pot  of  money  hadn't  come  by  them,  to 
deposit  his  penknife  with  Dick  Kavanagh  early  on  the 
morrow  as  a  lien  on  the  rabbits.  He  rushed  out  into  the 
kitchen  to  warn  Susan  that  Father  Lysaght  was  coming 
for  tea,  and  wondered,  as  he  said  a  hurried  "Thank  God 
for  a  good  dinner,"  why  people  wore  the  makings  of 
shirts  on  their  shoulders,  in  respect  for  the  dead. 

Munching  the  remains  of  his  cake,  he  ran  to  the  front 
gate  to  await  Father  Lysaght.  He  swung  the  gate  in  and 
out  to  test  its  swing.  He  then  swung  himself  nimbly 
over  the  top  bar,  held  on  to  it  by  his  toes,  his  head  close  to 
the  ground,  and  swung  briskly  to  and  fro.  The  game 
was  to  jerk  the  gate  open  again  between  the  warning  click 
of  the  fastening  and  the  actual  catch.  He  had  scored 
eleven  when  with  an  "Off  that,  you  young  imp,"  Father 
Lysaght  lifted  him  by  the  neck  and  dropped  him  on  to 
his  feet. 

"Have  you  the  pot?"  Jim  asked  eagerly,  shoving  back 
his  hair  from  a  highly  congested  forehead. 

"You  callous  young  brute,"  Father  Lysaght  said  with 
a  smile,  patting  the  tousled  hair,  "and  your  uncle  lying 
dead." 

"  Oh,  but  Father  James,  do  tell  me.     Really  and  truly 


Conquest  39 


have  you?"  Jim  wheedled  excitedly.     "I'm  very  sorry 
and  all  that  of  course." 

"  Cut  away  now,"  the  priest  said  with  a  laugh.  "  You 
needn't  put  up  the  horse,  Dempsey,  I'm  driving  to  Dri- 
sheen  in  a  few  minutes." 

"For  the  pot?  Can  I  go  with  you,  Father  James?" 
Jim  said  in  an  awed  tone. 

"The  boy  is  a  young  savage,"  the  priest  said  with  a 
half  admiring  shrug.  "Where  are  your  mother  and 
grandfather?" 

"Under  the  big  cedar.  It's  that  the  rabbits  may  be 
gone;  or  he  mayn't  hold  'em  for  the  penknife,"  Jim  said 
thoughtfully. 

The  priest  considered  this  and  said  gravely,  "  Of  course 
that  is  a  reason.  Perhaps  you  may  be  let  come.  We'll 
see." 

"Oh,  you'll  manage  it,  Father  James,"  Jim  said  con- 
fidently, hanging  on  to  the  priest's  arm  as  they  turned 
the  corner  of  the  house  on  to  the  river  front.  "They 
know  all  about  it.  I ' ve  told  'em  of  course, ' '  he  added  with 
a  nod  towards  the  cedars. 

"That's  good,"  Father  Lysaght  said  in  a  relieved  tone. 

His  mind  set  at  ease  by  this  mark  of  approval,  in  an 
outburst  of  gratitude  Jim  whispered,  "I'll  show  you  two 
late  nests  before  we  go — if  we  have  the  time — it's  a  little 
way  off,"  he  added  doubtfully,  a  fear  of  missing  the 
drive  to  Drisheen  oppressing  him. 

"We'll  have  more  time  another  day,"  the  priest  said 
with  an  understanding  smile.  "No,  don't  get  up,  Mr. 
Daly.  This  was  all  very  sudden.  Jim  says  he  told 
you,"  he  added,  shaking  hands  with  Pierce  and  Arabella. 
He  sat  on  the  wooden  seat,  close  to  the  tree  trunk,  took  a 
cup  of  tea  from  Arabella,  with  a  nod  of  thanks,  and 
said: 

"We  haven't  troubled  you  about  the  funeral  arrange- 


40  Conquest 

ments — it  was  the  least  we  could  do  for  one  of  our  own 
cloth.  The  bishop  thought  first  of  mass  in  the  Cathedral, 
but  later  he  changed  his  mind.  Drisheen,  Father  Pat's 
own  church,  is  certainly  more  suitable.  The  Drisheen 
people  will  expect  it.  With  all  his — "  he  hesitated  a 
moment  to  find  a  word. 

"With  all  his  reserve,"  he  said  tentatively. 

"Humph,"  Pierce  said  grimly. 

"The  people  loved  him,"  the  priest  said  firmly. 

"Pat  had  his  good  points,"  Pierce  conceded.  "He 
was  a  good  farmer  for  one  thing — better  than  me  and 
that's  saying  a  good  deal.  And  he  wasn't  saving  in 
advice  anyway,  and  the  people  profited  by  it." 

"He  took  what  they  gave  perhaps,"  Father  Lysaght 
said  defensively.  "But  he  never  pressed  them.  The 
dues  were  low — he  never  raised  them  the  whole  time  he 
was  there.  He  might  have  been  hard  on  himself,  but  he 
was  never  hard  on  the  people,  and  he  was  at  their  service 
night  and  day.  No  priest  in  the  diocese  did  his  duty  as 
well  as  he  did  his." 

"He  did  all  that,"  Pierce  said  grudgingly.  "But  it 
was  the  least  that  was  to  be  expected  of  a  Daly." 

"And  having  taken  the  body  to  Drisheen,  and  the  mass 
being  there,  the  bishop  thinks  it  will  be  more  suitable  to 
have  him  buried  there — among  his  own  people.  It  would 
certainly  be  more  convenient  than  to  bring  him  back 
again  all  the  way  to  Lisgeela,"  Father  Lysaght  said  with 
the  air  of  making  a  case  and  being  doubtful  of  the  result. 

"He  will  not  be  buried  there,"  Pierce  said  decisively. 

"But  the  bishop?" 

"Bishop  or  no  bishop,  he  will  not,  I  say.  Take  his 
body  to  Drisheen  if  ye  like  and  wake  it  there.  He'll  feel 
more  at  home  being  waked  in  his  own  little  chapel  than 
in  that  big  raw  barn  of  a  new  Cathedral.  And  have 
the  mass  at  Drisheen — all  that  is  fitting.  But  buried 


Conquest  41 

he'll  be  in  the  Daly  tomb  in  the  old  Cathedral  at  Lisgeela 
if  he  had  to  be  brought  by  road  a  hundred  miles  to  it. 
And  carried  too  on  willing  shoulders,  you'll  find  he'll  be, 
every  step  of  the  way.  He  was  head  of  the  Dalys  and 
it's  his  due — it's  to  turn  in  his  grave  he  would  if  he  was 
laid  anywhere  else.  And  I'm  head  of  the  house  now,  as 
Jim  here'll  be  after  me,  and  I'll  see  that  it's  done." 

"The  bishop,"  Father  Lysaght  insisted  doubtfully. 

"The  bishop!  Who's  the  bishop?"  Pierce  said  con- 
temptuously. 

Father  Lysaght  looked  meditatively  at  the  handsome, 
fiery  old  man,  at  the  old  rush  hat,  the  flannel  bawneen, 
the  collarless  flannel  shirt,  open  and  thrown  back  at  the 
neck,  at  the  horny,  toil-stained  hands,  at  the  stern  face. 

"Well,  that's  rather  a  feudal  idea,  Mr.  Daly,  isn't  it? 
And  you're  a  great  democrat,"  he  said  with  a  suspicion  of 
a  smile  at  the  corners  of  his  lips. 

"  Democracy's  all  right  in  its  own  place,  and  I'm  all  for 
it,  but  in  Lisgeela  he'll  be  buried,"  Pierce  said  calmly. 
"And  talking  of  feudalism,"  he  went  on  argumentatively, 
"why  it's  the  church " 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  the  bishop  will  give  way  at  once,  when 
he  knows  your  feelings  in  the  matter,"  Father  Lysaght 
interrupted  hurriedly. 

"Give  way  or  no,  it's  settled  here  and  now,"  the  old 
man  said  autocratically. 

Father  Lysaght  bowed  and  held  out  his  cup  for  more 
tea. 

"Can  I  do  anything?"  Arabella  asked. 

' '  I  think  not, ' '  Father  Lysaght  said  gently.  ' '  You  and 
I  are  the  executors,  but  there's  no  reason  why  you  should 
be  troubled  now.  Everything's  left  to  Jim." 

Jim,  who  had  been  steadily  munching  cake,  pricked 
his  ears  attentively 

"How  much  is  there?"  Arabella  asked  carelessly,  her 


42  Conquest 

heart  beating  fast.  "Enough  to  send  him  to  a  good 
school?" 

"Enough  and  more,  I  should  say." 

"And  to  the  University?" 

"Why  not?" 

Her  sad  eyes  glowed  and  a  faint  pink  tinged  her  pale 
and  somewhat  worn  cheeks. 

"There's  no  use  in  hoping  that  there  would  be  enough 
to  put  him  in  the  Diplomatic  Service?  A  Levin  was 
always  in  it.  Uncle  Silas  is.  And  he's  my  only  relative 
who  hasn't  thrown  me  over.  He  lives  out  of  Ireland  you 
see.  He  could  get  him  a  nomination.  I  used  to  dream 
of  this,"  she  trailed  off,  the  sad  look  again  in  her  brown 
eyes. 

"I've  no  doubt  it  could  be  done,  if  you  think  it  best  for 
him,"  the  priest  said  with  a  quick  look  at  the  oldman  who 
was  gazing  sternly  at  the  river. 

"But  it  takes  four  hundred  a  year?" 

"Even  so." 

She  sighed  contentedly.  Pierce  grunted  half  angrily. 
Jim  thought  it  all  very  disappointing.  It  didn't  seem 
to  bring  him  any  nearer  to  the  rabbits.  And  wasn't  he 
already  at  the  best  school  in  Ireland?  The  college  at 
Lisgeela  was  that.  Father  Macdonald  said  so.  There 
was  nothing  higher  except  Maynooth,  but  that  was  for 
priests,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  be  one,  his  mother  had 
said.  He  wasn't  quite  sure  yet  what  he'd  be.  The 
engine  driver  of  a  train  had  a  fine  life  with  no  one  to  say  a 
cross  word  to  him,  no  matter  how  black  his  face  was. 
And  the  Sub-Inspector  of  Police  at  Lisgeela,  when  he 
rode  with  sword  and  helmet  and  blew  his  silver  whistle — 
but  his  grandfather  had  put  an  end  to  that  dream.  The 
police  were  in  English  pay,  and  of  course  no  one  could 
take  blood  money.  Then  there  was  the  drum-major  of 
the  Lisgeela  brass  band. 


Conquest  43 

"I'm  driving  on  to  Drisheen  now,"  Father  Lysaght 
said  after  a  pause.  "  There's  no  one  in  the  house  but  his 
old  servant.  I  have  his  keys.  He  may  have  left  some 
instructions  besides  the  will.  I'd  like  one  of  the  family  to 
be  present — I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  come,  Mr.  Daly." 

"Sorra  foot '11  I  go,"  the  old  man  said  vehemently. 
"I'll  go  to  the  mass  and  I'll  go  to  the  funeral,  and  drive 
first  behind  the  corpse,  with  Arabella  and  the  boy  in 
Pagan's  old  mourning  coach.  And  we'll  have  the  pair  of 
horses,  though  that  spavined  hack  you  drove  out  on  is  a 
holy  sight  and  not  fit  to  be  seen  in  a  Christian  funeral. 
But  next  or  nigh  his  house  I  won't  go.  Though  he  came 
in  and  out  here  at  his  will,  and  was  always  welcome  to  a 
bed  and  whatever  was  going,  he  never  asked  me  to  a  bite 
or  sup  at  Drisheen ;  and  once  when  I  called  after  a  League 
meeting  he  never  asked  me  had  I  a  mouth  on  me.  Where 
I  wasn't  welcome  and  he  alive,  I  won't  be  found  scaveng- 
ing round  and  he  dead.  And  if  you  take  my  advice, 
Father  Lysaght,  you'll  put  whatever  money  you  find  in 
Pat's  house  in  a  sack,  and  tie  a  rock  round  it,  and  sink  it 
in  the  bottomless  pool  of  the  Owneybeg  below  the  Lis- 
geela  waterfall.  No  luck'll  come  of  it  to  this  house,  or  to 
any  one  in  it.  For  myself,  I'd  rather  be  dead  than  touch 
it  with  a  hay  rake.  Aren't  you  happy  without  it,  Ara- 
bella? and  what  good'll  it  do  for  Jim?  What's  the 
difference  between  a  good  school  and  a  bad  school,  and  no 
school  at  all,  except  to  make  a  man  have  a  bigger  conceit 
of  himself?  And  to  think  of  putting  the  boy  into  the 
service  of  England  to  learn  tricks  and  deceit.  I  never 
heard  the  like.  Would  you  let  'em  turn  you  into  an 
Englishman,  boy?"  he  added  fiercely,  turning  to  Jim. 

"Never,"  Jim  said  sturdily.  "And  say,  grandfather, 
it's  a  great  idea  to  put  the  money  in  a  sack — it's  nearly  as 
good  as  a  pot.  But  there's  no  sense  in  throwing  it  into 
the  river;  and  I  want  to  buy  some  rabbits  with  it  to- 


44  Conquest 

morrow  from  Dick  Kavanagh.  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't 
have  the  face  to  stick  out  for  more  than  two  shillings,"  he 
added  pleadingly. 

"After  all,  the  money  is  Jim's,"  Father  Lysaght  said 
drily.  "And  boys  are  sometimes  wiser  than  their 
grandfathers." 

The  old  man's  lips  twitched  and  his  eyes  twinkled  as  he 
tried  to  frown. 

"I'd  better  take  Jim  with  me  to  Drisheen,"  Father 
Lysaght  added. 

"Say  yes,  mother;  say  yes,  grandfather,"  Jim  said 
excitedly,  hopping  now  on  one  foot,  now  on  the  other. 

"Must  he  go?"  Arabella  asked  doubtfully. 

"It'll  do  him  no  harm,"  Father  Lysaght  said,  standing 
up.  "Come  Jim,  look  lively." 

Jim  made  a  spring  for  the  herbaceous  border,  and 
rescued  his  cap  from  off  the  anchusa. 

"Come  along,  Father  James,  hurry.  I'm  ready  now," 
he  shouted. 

"I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  of  ye,"  Pierce  said 
moodily.  "I  must  go  and  do  them  peas." 

He  stood  up.  Arabella  sprung  lightly  to  his  side,  and, 
standing  on  tiptoe,  kissed  his  chin.  "Neither  money  nor 
anything  else  will  ever  come  between  us,  father,"  she 
said  earnestly. 

He  patted  her  brown  hair.  "As  it's  a  long  drive  to 
Drisheen  with  that  old  broken-down  horse,  and  the  boy 
might  be  out  in  the  night  air,  you'd  better  put  a  coat  in 
the  car  for  him,"  he  said,  patting  her  hair  again. 

She  ran  towards  the  house. 

"What's  keeping  you,  Father  James?  We'll  be  hours 
and  hours  late,"  Jim  shouted  from  somewhere  in  front  of 
the  house. 

Pierce  shook  hands  with  the  priest,  saying,  "No  priest 
should  ever  leave  a  penny  piece." 


Conquest  45 

Father  Lysaght  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  suppose  that's  not  all  that  hurts  me,  though  it's  part 
of  it,"  Pierce  said,  answering  some  criticism  in  the  priest's 
eyes.  "It's  that  I  can't  bear  herself  or  the  boy  to  be 
beholden  to  any  one  else  in  the  world  except  myself — not 
even  to  Pat.  Not  that  I  think  they're  beholden  to  me — 
it's  the  other  way  round." 


More  than  once  on  the  way  to  Drisheen  Father 
Lysaght  was  tempted  to  regret  having  brought  the  boy. 
They  sat  together  on  one  side  of  the  jaunting  car,  the 
driver  on  the  other.  Before  they  were  half  way  to  Lis- 
geela  the  priest  wished  that  he  had  put  Jim  on  the  oppo- 
site side  and  Dempsey  on  the  dicky.  He  had  no  desire 
to  bring  the  boy  home  a  corpse,  and,  among  other  things, 
Jim  seemed  bent  on  breaking  his  neck.  Jaunting  cars 
were  not  the  safest  vehicles  in  which  to  do  trick  riding, 
and  Pagan's  car  was  a  terror  even  to  the  experienced. 
Whatever  chance  there  was  of  bringing  Jim  home  alive 
was  by  keeping  him  where  he  could  be  clutched  in  crises 
of  extreme  peril.  The  seat  inclined  lengthwise  to  the 
back  of  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  and  also  sloped 
outwards.  Safety  lay  as  a  rule  in  sitting  steadily  with 
feet  firmly  pressed  on  the  footboard,  hands  clasping 
the  end  rail.  Not  for  a  moment  did  Jim  sit  steady,  his 
feet  did  not  reach  the  footboard,  and  he  disdained  the 
rail.  He  broke  all  rules  by  not  breaking  his  neck.  He 
bumped  into  Father  Lysaght,  slid  off  the  seat  on  to  the 
footboard,  yet  the  car,  swaying  like  a  small  boat  in  a 
choppy  sea,  never  succeeded  in  pitching  him  on  to  the 
road.  His  mind  was  as  restless  as  his  body.  The  priest 
blessed  his  stars  and  his  celibacy.  Life  wouldn't  be 
worth  living  with  a  son  who  was  an  endless  series  of  inter- 


46  Conquest 

rogation  marks.  Yet — now  and  then  perhaps.  He  was 
always  such  a  jolly  little  chap.  What  was  the  proper 
price  of  black  and  white  rabbits?  Why  were  bishops 
nearly  always  fat?  Did  all  Orangemen  hate  Catholics? 
Was  it  wrong  to  bathe  six  times  in  one  day  in  the  Owney- 
beg  when  one's  mother  said  once  only  and  sewed  up  one's 
shirt  cuffs  tight,  not  because  she  didn't  trust,  but  just  for 
fear,  and  there  was  no  harm  done,  mothers  knowing  little 
about  bathing,  and  not  even  the  tiny  weeniest  of  a  lie 
spoken,  Susan  sewing  up  the  cuffs  again  with  the  same 
thread  so  that  no  one  would  dream  of  suspecting,  and 
advising  strongly  the  least  said  the  soonest  mended? 
Was  Parnell  a  bad  man  or  the  best  man  that  ever  lived? 
How  could  he  be  a  good  man  and  he  a  Protestant  ?  Was 
divorce  a  worse  sin  than  being  a  Protestant?  Was  it 
only  Orangemen  who  were  fried  in  hell? 

Father  Lysaght  was  glad  of  a  short  respite  at  Lisgeela 
while  he  quietly  but  firmly  argued  a  stormy  and  disgusted 
bishop  into  again  changing  his  mind  as  to  the  burial  place 
of  Father  Pat.  The  bishop  said  that  he  had  already 
spoken  and  that  that  was  the  end  of  it.  Father  Lysaght 
was  placidly  afraid  that  the  end  was  only  the  beginning  of 
this  particular  difficulty.  Pierce  Daly  had  also  spoken, 
and  he  was  a  violent  man  when  roused.  The  bishop,  not 
to  be  outdone  even  in  violence,  didn't  give  a  snap  of  his 
fingers  for  all  the  Pierce  Dalys  in  the  universe — besides, 
Pierce  Daly  was  a  Catholic  and  knew  his  duty  to  his 
bishop.  In  calm  moments  no  doubt,  Father  Lysaght 
agreed,  but  who  could  count  on  a  Daly  to  be  calm. 
Moreover,  Pierce  Daly  had  a  big  following  among  the 
Leaguers,  and  his  lordship  had  that  little  dispute  with  the 
League  over  the  nuns'  grass  lands  at  Brehony.  If  a 
conflict  arose,  say,  in  the  church  after  the  mass  for  the 
possession  of  the  body — Father  Lysaght  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  watched  with  absorbed  interest  the  bril- 


Conquest  47 

liant  colours  of  the  bishop's  turkey  carpet  as  the  wester- 
ing sun  penetrated  the  half  open  slats  of  the  drawn 
Venetian  blinds  of  the  study  windows.  The  bishop  bit 
his  nails  but  did  not  find  them  to  his  taste,  walked  with 
rapid  stride  up  and  down  the  long  room,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  and  cooled  his  temper  by  heating 
his  body.  He  stopped  abruptly,  said  that  he  had  a  cold 
coming  on  him  and  would  probably  be  in  his  bed  on 
Saturday.  The  Vicar  General  could  preside  at  the  mass. 
Anyhow  he  was  glad  to  wash  his  hands  of  the  whole 
business,  being  sick  of  people  who  were  neither  one  thing 
nor  another  but  who  gave  more  trouble  than  a  duke  or  a 
thousand  ordinary  people. 

When  the  priest  got  back  to  his  car,  Jim,  with  a 
demure  look,  was  sitting  unusually  quiet. 

"I'm  sorry  I  kept  you  so  long,"  Father  Lysaght  said 
pleasantly,  "but  I  succeeded  all  right.  You  become  a 
bishop,  Jim,  by  swallowing  facts,  no  matter  how  much 
you  dislike  them." 

"Rabbits  like  milk  thistles,"  Jim  said,  with  a  glance  at 
the  well  of  the  car. 

"As  quickly  as  you  can  now  to  Drisheen,  Dempsey," 
the  priest  said,  taking  his  seat.  "You  sat  in  the  car  all 
the  time?"  he  added,  with  a  suspicious  look  at  Jim,  who 
was  gazing  throughtfully  at  the  kerbstone. 

"Well — not  all  the  time,"  Jim  replied  modestly. 

"What  mischief  were  you  up  to,  then?" 

"Oh,  no  mischief  at  all.  I  thought  I  might  as  well  be 
doing  something  while  you  were  in  with  the  bishop.  I 
only  intended  just  to  see  the  rabbits — just  to  make  sure 
that  they  were  there.  So  I  pelted  off,  and  luck  of  luck  Dick 
Kavanagh  was  at  home.  And  hadn't  he  heard  all  about 
Father  Pat,  and  me  having  tons  of  money.  Say,  Father 
James,  isn't  it  a  fine  thing  to  be  rich  even  if  you  haven't 
a  penny  in  your  pocket?  Dick  almost  forced  the  five 


48  Conquest 

rabbits  on  me,  and  himself  mentioned  two  shillings,  or 
even  less  if  I  thought  it  too  much,  though  he  was  asking 
half  a  crown  as  late  as  playtime  to-day,  and  I  had  my 
mind  made  up  to  it — and  he  wouldn't  even  take  the  pen- 
knife in  pledge." 

"Where  are  they?"  the  priest  asked  severely. 

"In  the  well  of  the  car.  Won't  you  ask  Denipsey  to 
stop,  and  have  a  look  at  'em?  Do,  Father  James.  I'm 
sure  you're  aching  to  see  'em." 

"Are  they  all  right  there,  Dempsey?"  the  priest  said, 
with  a  frown. 

"As  snug  as  a  mouse  in  a  haycock,  your  reverence," 
the  driver  said,  with  a  grin. 

"As  if  I  didn't  know  how  to  look  after  rabbits!"  Jim 
said,  aggrieved.  "I  brought  two  up  from  Dick's  in  my 
pockets  and  the  rest  in  my  cap.  I  was  just  getting 
Dempsey  to  spread  out  the  feed  of  oats  in  the  bottom  of 
the  well  and  put  the  sack  on  top  of  it  for  a  bed  for  them 
when  I  thought  of  the  bishop's  hay.  I  ran  round  to  his 
yard — you  see  you  delayed  so  long — and  took  some  out 
of  the  stable,  and  the  garden  gate  being  open  I  pulled 
some  carrots  for  a  feed,  and  as  luck  would  have  it,  on  my 
way  back  through  the  yard,  there  I  saw  some  milk 
thistles.  There  was  plenty  of  time  and  I  had  'em 
bedded  and  fed  easily  by  the  time  you  were  back.  Do 
let's  have  a  look  at  'em,  Father  James — just  to  see  how 
they're  getting  on?"  Then  doubtfully,  "I  suppose  the 
bishop  wouldn't  mind  about  the  carrots — not,  anyway,  if 
he  knew  they  were  for  the  rabbits? " 

"Certainly  not  if  he  knew  it  was  a  Daly  took  'em — he's 
loving  you  all  so  much  to-day,"  Father  Lysaght  said, 
with  a  snap. 

"How  is  it  rabbits  never  need  water?  Do  let's  have  a 
look  at  'em,  Father  James.  They  may  get  hurt  with  the 
jolting  of  the  car." 


Conquest  49 

"Sorra  bit  of  'em,"  Dempsey  said. 

"Anyhow,  you  should  have  thought  of  that  before 
putting  them  there,"  the  priest  said,  making  a  desperate 
plunge  at  a  moral  lesson. 

"Is  it  to  leave  them  behind  when  I  had  such 
a  chance?"  Jim  said,  surprised  by  the  priest's  lack  of 
sense. 

Father  Lysaght  took  out  his  breviary.  "Not  another 
word  now,  till  I  have  read  Matins  and  Lauds  for  to- 
morrow," he  said  severely.  "Not  one  syllable,  mind." 

Jim  sighed  disconsolately,  but  watched  two  cocks 
fighting  till  the  mare  shook  off  the  strain  of  the  climb  up 
Hill  Street  and  began  her  canter.  He  tried  balancing  on 
the  edge  of  the  seat,  his  feet  in  the  air,  but  this  soon 
palled.  He  thought  again  of  the  money  which  every- 
body said  was  his.  Indeed,  from  the  way  Dick  Kavan- 
agh  acted,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Lots  of  it  too. 
He  fingered  in  his  pocket,  his  knife,  two  glass  marbles, 
the  case  of  an  old  silver  watch,  a  pencil,  a  piece  of  sealing- 
ing  wax,  and  felt  round  for  a  farthing  which  he  had  clung 
to  for  weeks  in  the  hope  of  another  farthing  turning  up 
— nothing  less  than  a  ha'penny  was  a  negotiable  coin  for 
a  boy  of  nine.  With  lots  of  money  he'd  perhaps  have 
shillings  in  his  pockets.  He  saw  a  vision  of  Andrews' 
confectionery  shop  in  the  Main  street,  of  the  beautiful 
wedding  cake  in  the  glass  case  in  the  window,  of  the  rows 
of  little  glass  dishes  on  the  glass  shelves  and  their  bur- 
thens of  cakes  and  sweets  and  buns.  The  dark  red, 
square-cut  jujubes  lasted  longest:  and  the  Lisgeela 
Beauty,  a  bun  with  large,  succulent,  stoneless  raisins, 
always  piping  hot  out  of  the  oven  at  three  on  Thursdays 
and  Mondays,  made  one's  mouth  water  even  to  think  of. 
And  he  had  been  able  to  go  to  Andrews'  only  once  a  week, 
and  not  even  then  if  there  were  other  things  to  buy  for  his 
twopence.  And  it  was  always  a  struggle  between  an 


50  Conquest 

ounce  of  jujubes  which  took  the  whole  twopence  and  a 
bun  which  left  a  ha'penny  over,  and  one  couldn't  ask  for 
a  ha'porth  at  Andrews',  though  one  could  at  Curley's. 
It  was  foolish  of  Father  Macdonald  to  try  and  make  the 
boys  spend  their  money  at  Curley's  when  the  whole 
world  knew  their  things  were  stodge,  the  Miss  Curleys 
being  always  playing  the  piano  and  singing  songs  with 
Father  Macdonald,  or  driving  down  to  the  sea  with  him 
to  Beekawn  all  through  the  summer.  If  the  Miss  Cur- 
leys  brought  their  own  cakes  what  a  stodge  the  tea  must 
be.  There  wasn't  a  boy  in  the  College  that  didn't 
prefer  the  Protestant  cakes  at  Andrews',  and  have  them 
too,  except  Mick  Tuohy,  who  was  a  voteen,  and  said 
that  Protestant  cakes  always  stuck  in  his  throat  while 
Catholic  cakes  went  down  like  butter — like  bad  butter, 
Dick  Kavanagh,  who  always  paid  a  visit  to  Andrews' 
at  playtime,  said.  And  now,  perhaps,  he'd  be  able  to  go 
to  Andrews'  at  playtime  instead  of  eating,  day  after  day, 
in  the  corner  of  the  playground  the  bread  and  butter 
sandwiches  his  mother  made  up  for  him.  They  were 
good,  of  course,  because  she  made  'em,  but  one  got  tired 
of  good  things,  and  they  weren't  Andrews'.  And,  of 
course,  the  very  first  thing,  he'd  buy  ounces  and  ounces 
of  jujubes  and  a  whole  paper  bag  full  of  cakes  for  his 
mother.  He  took  out  the  old  broken  watch-case  and 
wondered  whether  he'd  have  a  real  watch  of  his  own. 
He  wriggled  and  wriggled  and  watched  Father  Lysaght. 
Why  did  Father  James  always  read  his  office  just  at  the 
most  interesting  times?  He  looked  hopeful  as  the  priest, 
as  if  making  a  dash  for  the  winning  post,  said:  "per 
omnia  saecula  saeculorum."  But  there  was  only  a  look 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  a  smile  and  he  went  on 
again  in  a  steady  murmur,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  breviary. 
Money  or  no  money,  to-morrow  would  be  a  great  day. 
On  birthdays  there  was  always  a  surprise,  one  greater 


Conquest  51 

than  another,  from  his  mother,  and  a  half-crown  tip  from 
his  grandfather,  and  Susan  made  a  cake  that  nothing, 
even  from  Andrews',  could  equal.  Was  the  surprise 
going  to  be  a  fishing  rod  this  time  ?  There  were  signs  that 
it  was,  but  there  was  no  knowing. 

"Stop!  stop!  Draw  up  th'  old  mare  I'm  telling  you, 
Patsy  Dempsey.  And  I  wanting  to  speak  to  his  rever- 
ence. It's  a  regular  racer  old  Saturday's  turning  into," 
an  elderly  man  with  a  scraggy  grey  beard  shouted,  rush- 
ing out  from  the  Devoy  farmyard. 

"  Amn't  I  pulling  her  up  as  fast  as  I  can,  Mr.  Devoy," 
Dempsey  said,  with  a  show  of  restraining  the  only  too 
willing  horse. 

"  It's  ginger  you  put  under  her  tail  out  of  respect  of  his 
reverence,  no  doubt,"  Devoy  said  sarcastically. 

"It  isn't  then.  It's  the  nature  of  the  beast  to  have 
great  speed  in  her,"  Dempsey  said,  aggrieved. 

Father  Lysaght  took  a  verse  of  a  psalm  in  a  flying  leap, 
sighed,  arranged  a  marker,  and  shut  his  book  with  a  sigh. 

"Sure  I  wouldn't  be  interrupting  your  reverence  for 
all  the  world  in  the  blessed  office,  but  there's  a  trifle  of 
business  that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about,"  Devoy  said, 
lowering  his  tone.  "It's  here  in  my  inside  pocket  this 
minute — a  matter  of  six  hundred  and  sixty-five  pound 
all  in  notes,  the  price  of  the  bullocks  I  sold  for  Father 
Pat  this  morning,  not  counting  the  eight  pounds  fifteen 
I  gave  back  in  luck  penny.  I  used  always  hand  him 
anything  of  the  kind  and  he  passing  home  of  an  evening, 
but  sure  to-night,"  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  "it's  a  sight 
better  occupied  he  is  elsewhere  I  hope — though  it  is 
a  good  price,  sorra  better  in  the  market.  And  if  he  liked 
the  money  itself,  it  was  the  honour  and  glory  of  being 
the  top  price  that  warmed  him  most.  Wasn't  he  a  Daly 
first  and  last  when  all  is  said?  His  grandfather,  the 
story  goes " 


52  Conquest 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Devoy,"  Father  Lysaght  inter- 
rupted hastily.  "If  you  take  it  to  the  National  Bank 
and  lodge  it  to  his  account  I'd  be  obliged." 

"Whatever  you  say  is  law,  Father  James,  and  you 
having  the  management  of  things  with  the  mother  for 
the  boy  there,  I'm  told,"  Devoy  said,  grasping  the  rail 
of  the  car  firmly,  the  light  of  gossip  in  his  eyes.  "It's 
the  black  night  this'll  be  for  the  parish  of  Drisheen,  and 
the  best  priest  that  ever  reigned  over  it  gone  to  his  re- 
ward. "Pis  he  that  could  speak  comfort  to  the  dying,  or 
warn  a  young  girl  without  hurting  her  feelings,  and  come 
down  with  a  heavy  hand  on  the  drink  without  taking  the 
bread  altogether  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  publicans — 
moderation  he  preached,  and  it's  a  great  thing,  glory 
be  to  God,  for  them  that  have  the  courage  for  it.  And 
if  he  met  a  young  couple  coming  along  the  road  in 
decency  'tis  he  could  look  the  other  way  as  well  as 
another.  And  no  woman  that  ever  handled  a  rolling  pin 
had  a  lighter  hand  for  the  money.  The  grass  of  four 
bullocks  he  had  off  me,  and  when  the  good  times  came, 
what  with  the  reduction  in  the  Court  and  the  Arrears 
Act  and  the  like  that  your  grandfather,  Mister  Jim,  and 
more  power  to  him  for  it,  helped  to  squeeze  out  of  the 
grasping  English,  I  proffered  him  the  grass  of  another 
bullock.  4No,  Tom, 'he  said.  'Four  is  my  right  and  four 
I'll  have,'  he  said,  'and  not  a  beast  more.  And  I'll  see 
with  my  own  eyes  that  you  put  'em  on  the  best  grass  too,' 
he  said,  with  that  in  his  eye  that  you  never  knew  whether 
it  was  serious  he  was  or  joking.  As  if  it  wouldn't  be  a 
sin  past  forgiving  not  to  give  the  best  grass  to  the  stores 
he  chose  that'd  put  on  fat  on  thistles,  not  to  say  what 
they  did  on  the  best  grass  I  could  give  'em.  Take  no  less 
than  such  and  such,  Tom,  he'd  say,  never  in  his  life 
bothering  to  see  a  beast  of  his  sold.  And  sure  enough 
I'd  get  it.  But  he  was  the  devil  and  all,  God  forgive 


Conquest  53 

me  for  swearing  before  your  reverence,  to  please,  and  he 
buying  the  stores.  He  always  left  the  price  to  me,  but 
baste  after  baste  he'd  cast  for  this  point  or  that  that 
another  man  in  the  fair  couldn't  see.  Your  grandfather 
has  a  bit  of  the  same  gift,  Mister  Jim,  but  he  was  never 
in  the  same  street  as  Father  Pat.  His  only  weak  point 
was  politics,  but  sure  your  grandfather  shone  there  bright 
enough  for  both  of  'em.  A  great  man  he  was,  God  rest 
his  soul  this  night.  Sure  it'd  be  easier  to  grow  a  score  o' 
bishops  than  to  find  his  like  again  for  Drisheen  parish." 

"I  have  five  rabbits  in  the  well  of  the  car,"  Jim  said 
proudly. 

For  once  Father  Lysaght  welcomed  the  rabbits  and 
said  with  a  sigh  of  relief:  "We've  a  lot  to  do  and  must  be 
hurrying  on.  Many  thanks,  Mr.  Devoy." 

"You  haven't  then?"  Devoy  said,  his  mouth  wide 
open,  volubility  gone  in  astonishment. 

"Oh,  but  I  have.  Black  and  white.  Would  you  like 
to  see  them?" 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Devoy.  Drive  on,  Dempsey," 
Father  Lysaght  said  firmly. 

"Beauties  they  are  sure  enough,"  Devoy  said,  lifting 
the  well  board.  "  God  grant  it's  the  same  eye  for  a  baste 
you'll  have  as  your  granduncle." 

The  horse  moved  off.  Devoy  replaced  the  well-board 
reluctantly,  and  continued  to  hang  on  to  the  car,  gasping 
as  he  ran: 

"I'm  off  this  minute  to  lodge  that  money  with  Mr. 
Murphy — it's  after  hours  but  he'll  take  it  from  me.  It's 
uneasy  the  dead  might  rest  to-night  and  he  thinking  it 
was  knocking  about  in  any  loose  place." 

Father  Lysaght  waved  a  hand,  said  "thanks,"  and 
busied  himself  again  with  his  breviary. 

Jim  looked  behind,  watched  Devoy  lumbering  off,  and 
wondered  how  any  man  could  carry  so  much  money  in 


54  Conquest 

his  breast  pocket.  If  it  was  Father  Pat's,  did  any  of  it 
belong  to  him?  Imagine  him  not  knowing  before  that 
Father  Pat  was  such  a  great  man — he  seemed  such  a 
shabby  old  man.  .  .  . 

The  country  here  was  new  to  him  and  he  looked  about 
with  interest.  Mooncon  mountain  seemed  to  have  two 
peaks  instead  of  one;  and  he  could  recognize  the  Bit  of 
Dawlish  beyond  Tubber,  but  they  were  the  only  familiar 
objects.  He  leant  back,  his  elbow  on  the  well-board,  and 
grew  pink  with  excitement.  Devoy  hadn't  fitted  in  the 
board  properly,  and  through  the  open  space  in  front  the 
noses  of  several  rabbits  peeped  out. 

He  was  thrilled  by  their  cool  touch  on  his  fingers. 

At  the  top  of  Culleen  hill  Dempsey  whispered: 

"Look  behind  you  and  you'll  see  Dalyhouse — the  grey 
house  in  the  trees  far  away  on  your  left." 

"  I  see  it,  I  see  it,"  Jim  whispered  excitedly.  "  I  never 
saw  it  before." 

"Imagine  that  now,"  Dempsey  said,  "and  beyond 
there  in  front  of  you  on  your  left — you  see  them  trees? 
That's  Lissyfad,  your  grandfather  Colonel  Levin's 
place." 

Jim  frowned.  "I've  no  grandfather  but  grandfather 
Daly,"  he  said  hotly. 

"Do  you  hear  that  now — and  him  Colonel  of  the 
mileesha  too, ' '  Dempsey  said,  with  a  pious  look  at  the  sky. 

"He's  an  Orange  dog  and  an  English  traitor,"  Jim 
said,  his  anger  betraying  him  into  a  loud  tone. 

"There  you  are — talking  again.  And  whom  are  you 
giving  this  beautiful  character  to?"  Father  Lysaght 
said,  looking  up  with  a  smile. 

"My  mother's  father,"  Jim  said  doggedly,  but  a  little 
abashed. 

The  priest  frowned.  "Your  grandfather,  you  mean. 
For  shame.  What  would  your  mother  say?" 


Conquest  55 

"Susan  Roche  says  he  is." 

' '  Susan  Roche  says  more  than  her  prayers.  When  I've 
finished  Lauds  I'll  give  you  a  bit  of  my  tongue  for  this, 
and  perhaps  a  thrashing." 

Jim  smiled  composedly  as  the  priest  resumed  his 
reading.  Long  experience  had  taught  him  that  Father 
Lysaght  was  never  so  harmless  as  when  he  threatened, 
and  as  for  thrashing — he  looked  at  Dempsey  to  share 
the  joke.  But  Dempsey  had  even  a  better  one.  He  was 
holding  up  a  biscuit,  pointing  at  the  rabbits  and  making  a 
pretence  of  eating  with  his  lips.  Jim  smiled  intelligently, 
took  the  biscuit,  and,  before  the  rabbits  had  nibbled  it  all, 
was  in  front  of  the  priest's  house  at  Drisheen. 

"Here  we  are  at  last,"  Father  Lysaght  said  with  a 
final  sign  of  the  cross,  jumping  briskly  on  to  the  road. 

"What  a  shabby  place.  Is  that  my  Uncle  Pat's 
house?"  Jim  said,  disgusted. 

"It's  a  battered  shell  with  a  gold  kernel,"  Father 
Lysaght  said  drily.  "Come  along  in." 

"Oh,"  Jim  said,  looking  for  some  new  wonder.  "You'll 
pick  some  dandelions,  won't  you,  while  we're  inside,"  he 
whispered  to  Dempsey. 

"It  isn't  far  I'll  have  to  go  to  look  for  'em,"  Dempsey 
said,  nodding  towards  the  neglected  garden  which, 
choked  with  rank  grass  and  weeds,  fronted  the  long,  low, 
single-storied,  slated  house.  A  low  wall  surmounted  by 
an  iron  railing  surrounded  the  narrow  strip  of  garden. 
The  plaster  on  the  garden  wall  and  on  the  front  wall  of 
the  house  had  peeled  off  in  irregular  patches.  The  iron 
railings  had  corroded  till  many  of  the  bars  had  fallen 
asunder.  The  small  entrance  gate,  both  hinges  rotted 
away,  stood  permanently  open.  There  was  no  trace  of 
the  gravelled  path  from  the  gate  to  the  door,  beyond  a 
less  dense  growth  of  grass  and  a  denser  growth  of  weeds 
slightly  trodden  down.  Hollyhocks,  nettles,  roses, 


56  Conquest 

dandelions,  docks  and  immense  tree  lupins  flowered  in 
tangled  masses.  The  door  and  windows  were  askew 
from  rotting  posts  and  lintels.  The  paint  had  either 
peeled  off  or  had  been  washed  away  to  the  priming.  One 
whole  sash  had  been  replaced  by  an  outhouse  door. 
Broken  panes  had  either  been  left  untouched  or  had  been 
repaired  with  pieces  of  brown  cardboard.  The  door 
knocker,  its  hinge  gone,  was  fastened  with  a  piece  of  bent 
wire.  The  limestone  doorstep  was  spotlessly  clean;  and 
on  it  was  a  beautiful  Persian  cat,  on  his  back,  his  head 
between  his  fore  paws,  gently  licking  his  belly.  He 
stood  up  as  Father  Lysaght  approached,  arched  his  back, 
and  sidled  his  long  body  luxuriously,  from  his  ear  to  the 
tip  of  his  tail,  against  the  priest's  trousers. 

As  the  priest  was  about  to  knock  the  sound  of  sobbing 
and  of  heavy  footsteps  came  from  the  hall.  The  door 
opened  with  a  grating  noise,  and  Julia  Feeney,  half 
hidden  behind  it,  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  said  tearfully: 

"Sure  I  saw  ye  coming  from  the  window  of  the  kitchen, 
and  I  making  a  cup  o'  tea  for  myself  to  drown  my  grief. 
Och,  Father  James,  asthore,  and  is  it  young  Mister  Jim 
Daly  you  have  with  you  that  he'd  give  his  heart's  blood 
for?  And  where's  his  own  brother,  Mr.  Pierce,  and  he  not 
with  ye  this  day  ?  Ochone,  ochone,  o,  sure  it's  crying  him 
within  in  the  Cathedral  at  Lisgeela  he  must  be,  and  he  not 
with  ye.  At  one  o'clock  and  I  lifting  the  praties  off 
the  fire  Bessy  Neil  came  to  me  with  the  news,  bringing  it 
hot  foot  from  Lisgeela  as  fast  as  the  ass  could  carry  her. 
Turned  into  a  stone  I  was,  with  the  pot  in  my  hand,  and 
the  blood  froze  in  me,  till  the  tears  came,  and  then  my 
hand  went  limp  and  the  pot  and  the  blessed  spuds 
scattered  themselves  trawn-a-hela  everywhere  about  the 
floor.  Sorra  such  tears  Bessy  says  she  ever  seen  since  she 
waked  her  own  mother.  And  wasn't  he  father  and 
mother  to  me,  the  best  and  the  most  generous  and  the 


Conquest  57 

most  flahool  master  that  ever  drew  breath.  Them  that'd 
say  he  wasn't  let  'em  say  it  to  my  face,"  she  added, 
angrily,  lowering  her  apron,  and  throwing  out  her  chest. 

"No  one  says  it,"  Father  Lysaght  said  mildly.  "Jim 
and  I  have  come  to  look  over  his  papers — he  may  have 
left  some  directions  that  may  have  to  be  attended  to  at 
once." 

':Sure  you're  heartily  welcome,  Father  James.  'Tis 
you  always  understood  the  good  heart  he  had,  and  his 
own  blood  is  doubly  welcome.  But  if  it  was  some  of 
them  others  came,  even  if  they  wore  a  belly-band  itself,  I 
take  my  solemn  davy  it's  to  slam  the  door  in  their  face  I 
would  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Julia  Feeney." 

"Now,  now,  Julia,  none  of  that,"  Father  Lysaght  said 
quietly. 

"Oh,  I'll  listen  to  you,  Father  James,  none  readier, 
both  as  a  friend  of  the  dead  and  a  good  priest  of  God,  but 
as  to  what  I'll  do  or  will  not  do  I'll  follow  my  own  counsel 
in  that." 

"You're  in  his  house,  and  you  won't  be — what  he  never 
was — rude  to  any  one  high  or  low." 

"Indeed  and  I  wouldn't  demean  myself  so  far,"  she 
cried,  hesitating.  "And  you're  right  there,  he  wouldn't 
like  it.  But  a  remark  or  two  by  the  way  of  no  harm  ? " 

"Not  even  a  remark,"  he  said  firmly,  his  lips  twitching 
a  little. 

"It's  a  hard  and  bitter  penance  you're  putting  on  me," 
she  said  with  a  deep  sigh.  "But  in  memory  of  the  dead 
I  promise  you  to  abide  by  it.  But  there's  no  bar,  thanks 
be  to  God,  to  chanting  the  praises  of  the  dead  and  letting 
the  world  know  his  virtues." 

She  opened  the  door  wide  to  allow  the  priest  and  Jim  to 
enter.  "There's  that  thief  of  a  cat,"  she  said,  with  a 
catch  in  her  voice,  "waiting  him  on  the  doorstep  and  he 
never  to  cross  it  again  unless  he  walks,  which  God  forbid 


58  Conquest 

— though  sorra  afeard  even  of  his  ghost  I'd  be.  It's 
many  a  tit-bit  he  threw  you,  Prince  agra,"  she  added 
resolutely,  resting  a  hand  on  her  hip,  and  facing  Father 
Lysaght  unblinkingly.  "The  one  great  failing  of  the 
dead  was  that  he  was  so  wasteful  and  extravagant  of  the 
food.  Not  that  he'd  eat  much  himself,  for  'tis  he  was  the 
dainty  feeder.  Tut  on  that  saddle  of  mutton  for  the 
dinner  to-day,'  he'd  say  to  me.  'Wouldn't  a  couple  of 
chops  off  the  loin  be  enough  for  you,  there  being  no 
company?'  I'd  say — for  it's  few  were  good  enough  for 
him  and  he  couldn't  abide  riff-raff.  'No,'  he'd  say. 
'Roast  the  saddle,  Julia,  and  we'll  have  the  loin  to- 
morrow unless  you  think  the  piece  of  beef  more  tasty?' 
And  not  even  by  dint  of  roasting  or  boiling  a  joint  a  day 
could  I  get  through  all  that  he'd  order  in.  Just  a  pick 
he'd  take  off  it,  and  a  plateen  full  for  Prince  and  then 
'twould  be  'Take  it  away,  Julia,  and  don't  let  me  see  it 
again.'  It's  to  bury  it  in  the  garden  I  used  so  as  not  to  let 
on  to  the  neighbours  the  power  of  food  we  misused.  It 
was  his  one  and  only  sin  and  I  hope  God  won't  be  hard 
on  him  for  it." 

She  faltered  a  little  and  her  half-defiant  look  softened 
and  became  worried.  Father  Lysaght  held  out  his  hand. 
She  looked  at  his  sympathetic  face  unsteadily  for  a 
moment,  wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron,  took  his  hand, 
knelt,  and  kissed  it  twice.  He  helped  her  up. 

"You  mean  that  God  is  big  enough  to  overlook  a 
trifle?"  she  said  brokenly,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"I  do,"  he  said  firmly. 

"Then  heaven  is  his  bed  to-night,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  "  But  what's  on  me  at  all,  at  all,  to  be  keeping 
your  reverence  and  Mister  Jim  standing  on  the  doorstep? 
It's  glad  I  am  that  you  came,  for  there's  that  in  the  room 
there,"  with  a  mysterious  nod  towards  the  door  on  the  left, 
"that  I'd  rather  ye'd  take  away  with  ye  and  I  all  alone  in 


Conquest  59 

the  house.  There's  nothing  in  any  other  room  that  ye 
need  bother  yeerselves  with.  The  dining-room  is  shut 
up — it  was  the  luck  of  God  the  window  fell  in  after  the 
Confirmation  and  not  before  it.  And  there's  nothing  of 
any  value  there  but  the  porringer  he  used  to  ate  out  of  and 
he  a  child.  The  rag  and  bone  man  wouldn't  give  five 
shillings  for  all  that's  in  his  bedroom — a  few  rags  of 
clothes  and  an  old  truckle  bed  that's  as  hard  as  the  sky 
of  heaven  in  a  winter  wind.  And  not  a  stick  in  any 
other  bedroom  except  me  own,  and  only  a  few  odds  and 
ends  of  things  in  the  kitchen.  And  not  a  scrap  of  his 
papers  anywhere  except  in  the  room  within.  Whatever 
there  is  is  all  before  ye  in  there,  and  nothing  locked  up. 
He  carried  keys  about  with  him,  for  it  was  a  trick  he  had 
of  playing  his  fingers  on  them.  And  it's  to  go  and  get  ye 
both  a  cup  of  tea  now  I  will — by  dint  of  contriving  I  can 
get  it  easy  for  ye." 

Father  Lysaght  made  no  effort  to  keep  her,  but  he 
watched  her  as  she  clattered  down  the  flagged  hall  in  her 
heavy  shoes,  her  head  bent  forward. 

"What  a  funny  old  woman,"  Jim  said,  half  awed. 
"And  the  whole  world  knowing  that  my  uncle  near 
starved  himself." 

"You've  a  lot  to  learn,  my  boy,"  the  priest  said. 

"Everything  is  bare  and  mean,  but  she  keeps  it 
as  clean  as  a  new  pin,"  Jim  said,  with  a  look  round 
the  spotless  flags,  the  highly  burnished  brass  knobs 
to  doors  that  somehow  looked  clean  and  polished 
though  half  the  paint  had  peeled  off,  and  the  absurd 
white,  lime-washed  dado  on  a  faded  and  worn  red  wall 
paper. 

"  More  than  that,"  the  priest  said,  interested. 

"She  was  very  fond  of  him,"  Jim  said  thoughtfully. 

"That's  better." 

"And  she's  a  brick  to  stand  up  for  him  like  that." 


60  Conquest 

The  priest  smiled,  said  nothing,  but  ran  his  fingers 
through  the  boy's  hair. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  Jim  said  eagerly. 

"We  must  settle  about  Julia  Feeney  first,"  the  priest 
said,  watching  him.  "I'm  going  to  tell  her  a  lie." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that,  Father  James — it  wouldn't  be 
fair  to  her,"  Jim  said  indignantly,  firing  up. 

"I  prefer  your  way  to  George  Washington's,"  the 
priest  said  with  a  chuckle.  "We  were  always  good 
friends,  Jim,  but  we're  going  to  be  better.  You  may  put 
a  score  of  rabbits  in  the  well  of  the  car  if  you  like.  But 
I'm  going  to  tell  Julia  Feeney  that  lie  all  the  same." 

Still  frowning  Jim's  face  took  on  a  puzzled,  inquiring 
look. 

"It's  this  way,"  the  priest  said  calmly.  "Father  Pat 
didn't  remember  her  in  his  will — I  don't  believe  she  has  a 
penny  piece — and  I'm  going  to  tell  her  that  he  did." 

"Oh,"  Jim  said,  his  face  clearing.  "I  understand," 
he  added,  with  a  smile. 

"  Not  much — a  few  pounds  down,  and  enough  to  keep 
her  year  by  year.  You  agree?  It  all  comes  out  of  your 
money." 

"You  bet,"  Jim  said  enthusiastically.  "There's 
enough  I  suppose?"  he  added,  with  a  shade  of  regret  for 
toppling  dreams. 

"Heaps,"  Father  Lysaght  said  emphatically.  "You 
could  give  it  to  her  yourself,  of  course — but  it  would 
never  be  the  same  thing  to  her." 

Jim  thought  this  over  for  a  few  seconds  and  then  said 
an  eager,  "I  see." 

"We  must  consult  your  mother,  of  course,  but  she's 
sure  to  agree." 

"Sure  to — my  mother  sees  everything  at  once,"  Jim 
said  confidently. 

The  priest  patted  his  shoulder,  took  away  his  hand 


Conquest  61 

abruptly,  said  harshly:  "Let's  go  in  now,"  and  led  the 
way  into  the  sitting  room. 

A  roughly  made  roll  top  desk  stood  in  a  corner  by  the 
front  window,  almost  filling  the  space  between  the  win- 
dow and  the  empty  grate.  At  the  other  side  of  the  grate 
was  a  rickety  mahogany  bookcase,  reaching  from  the 
floor  to  the  low  ceiling,  but  in  two  of  the  shelves  only  were 
there  any  books.  A  glass  door,  one  pane  patched  with 
cardboard,  led  to  a  broken-down  greenhouse  of  which 
hardly  any  of  the  glass  remained.  Opposite  the  book- 
case was  a  cupboard  let  into  the  wall.  A  cheap  Brussels 
carpet,  old  and  patched  and  darned,  covered  the  floor. 
The  chenille  table  cover  on  the  small  square  table  was 
neatly  patched  with  stuff  evidently  cut  off  the  ends  of  the 
cloth  itself.  The  flimsy  Nottingham  lace  curtains  hang- 
ing from  dejected  looking  bamboo  poles  over  the  window 
and  the  greenhouse  door  were  darned  till  little  of  the 
original  lace  remained.  The  shiny,  horsehair  armchair 
standing  between  the  table  and  the  empty  grate  and  three 
forlorn  chairs  in  a  row  along  the  opposite  wall  were 
patched  with  black  cloth.  The  patches  on  the  armchair 
had  themselves  been  darned.  The  burnished  fire  irons 
had  lost  all  useful  parts.  An  oleograph  of  Pope  Leo 
XIII. — a  calendar  advertisement,  five  years  old,  of  a  firm 
of  Catholic  educational  publishers — was  tacked  over  the 
mantelpiece.  On  the  opposite  wall  was  a  farmyard 
scene  of  Morland's,  shiny  and  German,  emblazoned 
with  the  Christmas  compliments  of  Mallon  and  Son, 
grocers,  Hill  Street,  Lisgeela.  The  wall  paper,  repaired 
in  a  variety  of  colours,  was  faded  to  an  indistinguishable 
pattern  which  left  a  doubt  as  to  what  was  damp  and 
what  was  pattern.  A  pair  of  slippers  lay  against  the 
broken  bar  of  the  fender.  A  copy  of  the  Lisgeela  Weekly 
News  was  on  the  table,  unopened,  beside  a  paraffin  lamp 
trimmed  for  lighting. 


62  Conquest 

"  Julia  Feeney  has  just  managed  to  keep  the  place  from 
falling  to  bits,"  Father  Lysaght  said,  after  a  quick 
glance  round  the  room.  "If  you  look  through  the  cup- 
board, Jim,  I'll  see  what's  in  the  desk." 

He  drew  a  chair  in  front  of  it,  sat  down,  and  rolled 
back  the  unlocked  top. 

"There's  nothing  in  the  cupboard  but  three  big  tins  of 
Jacobs'  biscuits  and  a  half  pound  tobacco  box,"  Jim 
called  out,  disappointed. 

"Have  you  looked  inside  'em?" 

"No." 

"Well,  do." 

"Oh,"  Jim  shouted.  "Do  come  here,  Father  James. 
Half-crowns  and  two-shilling  pieces  and  shillings  and 
sixpences — stacks  and  stacks  of  'em.  The  biscuit  tin  is 
so  heavy  I'm  afraid  to  try  and  lift  it  out." 

"What's  in  the  other  tins?"  Father  Lysaght  asked, 
without  looking  round. 

"Silver  in  one — chock  full — and  the  other's  about  half 
full  of  coppers.  And  the  tobacco  box — oh,  if  it  isn't 
packed  with  sovereigns  and  half-sovereigns." 

"Put  the  lids  on,  shut  the  cupboard,  and  come  here  and 
help  me,"  Father  Lysaght  said  in  a  matter  of  fact  tone 
that  chilled  Jim's  growing  spirit  of  adventure.  It  was 
more  exciting  than  playing  at  Red  Indians  or  Protest- 
ants, and  here  was  Father  James  taking  it  coolly  and  half 
spoiling  everything. 

"There's  nothing  else  in  the  cupboard,"  Jim  said 
mysteriously,  in  a  sort  of  whispered  shout,  "but  if 
we  lifted  up  the  boards  we  might  get  something  un- 
derneath." 

"Shut  the  door,  and  come  here,"  the  priest  said  im- 
patiently, as  he  went  on  sorting  papers. 

Jim,  in  sheer  disgust,  felt  an  inclination  to  slam  the 
cupboard  door — Father  James  wasn't  playing  the  game. 


Conquest  63 

A  glance  at  the  greenhouse  door  restrained  him.  Out 
there  a  robber  or  a  highwayman  or  a  pirate  might  be 
crouching  with  ears  pricked.  He  shut  the  door  of  the 
cupboard  gently,  made  a  cabalistic  sign  with  his  finger  to 
the  back  of  the  priest's  bent  head,  and,  with  carefully 
chosen  steps,  walked  on  tiptoe  towards  the  desk.  Still 
on  tiptoe,  he  peered,  his  hand  shading  his  eyes,  over 
Father  Lysaght's  shoulder.  Pshaw,  no  treasure  there — 
only  a  confused  mass  of  papers.  Yet,  were  these  cheques 
and  notes? 

"Lord,  but  he  was  a  queer  man,"  the  priest  said, 
breaking  the  spell.  "Just  thrown  in  anyhow  and  for- 
gotten. I'll  have  to  take  out  all  these  drawers,"  pulling 
out  two  pink  slips  from  behind  a  drawer.  "Hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  pounds  in  uncashed  cheques  and 
dividend  warrants — several  years  old,  some  of  them — just 
as  if  he  got  tired  of  the  game,  or  got  bored — everywhere 
I  stick  in  my  hand  I  find  a  bundle  of  greasy  notes ;  and 
securities  thrown  in  anyhow.  But  I  can't  find  a  list 
of  securities  or  a  bank  book  or  account  book  anywhere. 
Have  a  look  through  the  bookcase,  Jim,  and  see  if  you 
can  find  anything — any  account  book  or  copybook  or 
paper  with  writing  in  it." 

"I'm  sure  it's  under  the  boards  you'd  find  'em,"  Jim 
said  eagerly. 

"What  is  the  boy  thinking  of  ? "  the  priest  said,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  and  looking  at  Jim  with  a  weary  smile. 
"Hidden  treasure,  eh?"  pinching  his  ear.  He  waved 
his  hand  over  the  desk  and  added  seriously,  "And  all  this 
lying  about  for  any  one  who  cared  to  lift  the  lid.  Run 
and  look  through  the  bookcase  like  a  good  boy,  or  we'll 
be  here  all  night  and  I've  a  lot  to  do — it's  twenty  past 
six."  With  a  sigh,  and  unconvinced,  Jim  went  at  once, 
while  the  priest  bent  again  to  the  sorting  of  cheques  and 
dividend  warrants,  notes  and  securities. 


64  Conquest 

'"  Diseases  of  Cattle'  is  no  good,  I  suppose  ? "  Jim  called 
out. 

"No." 

"Nor  'All  about  the  Horse?'" 

"Only  books  in  handwriting  or  with  written  figures," 
the  priest  said  with  a  patient  smile. 

"Oh,"  Jim  said,  turning  over  rapidly,  "'Clover  as  a 
Fattener';  'The  Complete  Farrier';  a  devotional  book  by 
St.  Francis  Liguori;  'The  Georgics';  Gury's  'Casus  Con- 
scientiae';  Crabbe's  Poems;  'The  Absentee;'  three  vol- 
umes of  the  Roman  Breviary;  'Castle  Rackrent'; 
'Speeches  from  the  Dock';  'The  Treatment  and  Cure  of 
Murrain';  'The  Parents'  Assistant';  'Irish  Land  Laws'; 
'Hell  opened  to  Christians' ;  'The  Key  of  Heaven' ;  'Ser- 
mons by  Vicesimus  Knox';  'Bleak  House';  'The  History 
of  the  Daly  Family  from  the  Creation  of  Adam,  with 
Frequent  Reference  to  and  Quotations  from  Original  and 
Authentic  Documents  and  Many  Notes  and  Appendices.' 

"Say,  Father  James,"  he  shouted.  "Here's  a  find — a 
History  of  the  Dalys." 

"Oh,  that!" 

Jim  revenged  the  priest's  indifference  by  banging 
Sidney  Smith's  complete  works  with  the  "Curiosities  of 
Literature." 

"There's  only  a  'Ready  Reckoner'  and  'The  Spiritual 
Exercises  of  St.  Ignatius,'  and  a  bundle  tied  with  string 
left,"  he  said  petulantly. 

"Untie  it  then." 

He  cut  the  string  with  his  penknife,  dropped  the  pen- 
knife and  string  on  the  fioor,  and  shouted  excitedly : 

"Here  they  are ! — The  Reverend  Patrick  Aloysius  Daly 
— I  never  knew  he  had  that  frump  of  a  name — in  account 
with  the  National  Bank,  Drisheen  Chapel  Accounts,  and 
two  other  little  passbooks  with  writing  and  figures  in 
them." 


Conquest  65 

"That's  all  right  then,"  Father  Lysaght  said,  with  a 
calmness  that  annoyed  Jim  and  damped  his  elation  a 
little.  Father  James  was  a  good  sort  but  he  was  getting 
old — forty  if  he  was  a  day.  It  wasn't  his  fault,  perhaps, 
that  he  wasn't  any  good  at  a  game  like  this.  Now  his 
mother — she  always  said  and  did  the  right  thing — and  in 
the  very  lightest  kind  of  a  way. 

Father  Lysaght  took  the  books,  turned  them  over 
rapidly  one  by  one,  said  "Yes,  yes,"  drew  a  notebook 
and  pencil  out  of  his  pocket,  and,  bent  over  the  desk, 
began  a  more  detailed  examination  of  the  books,  scribbled 
occasionally  in  his  notebook,  and  seemed  to  forget  that 
there  was  any  one  else  in  the  room.  Jim  fidgeted  from 
foot  to  foot,  pulled  the  tail  of  the  cat,  yawned,  tried  to 
open  the  greenhouse  door  but  found  it  was  nailed  up, 
thought  of  the  rabbits,  and  was  eyeing  the  cupboard 
door  irresolutely  and  gathering  courage  to  have  another 
look  at  the  buried  treasure — wasn't  it  all  the  same  as 
buried  in  there  in  the  dark? — when  there  was  a  knock, 
and  Julia  Feeney,  bearing  a  tray,  entered  the  room. 

"With  the  help  of  Mrs.  Costigan,  a  real  laughy  woman 
she  is,  above  at  the  public-house  in  front  of  the  chapel 
gate,  I  fixed  up  the  tea  grand,"  she  said  proudly,  putting 
down  the  tray  on  the  table.  "  But  the  eggs  is  our  own, 
and  the  bit  of  butter,  as  luck'd  have  it,  Mrs.  Devoy  sent 
up  only  yesterday." 

"  Is  there  a  Gladstone  bag  or  an  empty  trunk  in  the 
house?  Or  a  clean  sack  would  do.  And  some  string  or 
rope  and  a  piece  of  sealing-wax?"  Father  Lysaght 
asked,  without  looking  up. 

"I've  some  sealing-wax  in  my  pocket,"  Jim  said 
quickly,  scenting  fresh  exitement. 

"There  was  my  own  box,"  Julia  Feeney  said,  fingering 
her  apron  thoughtfully,  "but  sure  I  broke  it  up  long  ago 
for  kindling  the  fire  with,  and  there's  his  trunk  with  the 


66  Conquest 

cowhide  cover  on  it  as  good  as  new  that  he  had  in  May- 
nooth  with  him,  but  I  use  that  for  a  chest  of  drawers  to 
keep  his  few  things  in;  and  there's  the  carpet  bag  that  he 
used  to  take  to  the  retraites  with  him  and  into  Lisgeela 
if  ever  he  slept  there  for  a  couple  of  nights  during  Holy 
Week,  but  it  was  seldom  he  did  it — that's  empty.  And 
there's  string  enough  and  to  spare — put  by  off  an  odd 
parcel  and  the  like,  and  it's  little  of  it  Whitey'll  need  any 
more.  But  what  in  the  world  would  you  be  wanting 
them  for,  Father  James?" 

"To  take  away  some  papers  and  the  money  to  the 
bank,"  he  said  directly. 

"  I'll  run  and  get  the  bag,"  she  said  gladly.  "  Sure  every 
time  I  used  to  look  at  them  cake  tins  in  the  cupboard 
— it's  mass  offerings  and  baptisms  and  the  like  they  are — 
it's  to  cry  my  eyes  out  I  used,  and  him  not  getting  an 
ounce  or  a  drop  of  comfort  out  of  'em — a  ton  weight  on 
his  heart  the  money  was,  squeezing  the  good  nature  out  of 

IllXXl. 

"I  can't  see  that  he  owes  a  penny,"  Father  Lysaght 
said  when  she  left  the  room.  "And  the  church  account 
owes  him  about  twenty  pounds.  There's  roughly  about 
thirty-seven  thousand  pounds  worth  of  securities,  averag- 
ing five  per  cent,  or  a  little  over — about  forty  thousand 
altogether  with  what's  piled  up  on  the  desk  here  and  his 
bank  balance  and  what  Devoy  has — and  your  find,"  he 
added  with  a  smile.  "About  two  thousand  a  year." 

"Is  that  as  much  as  the  Scovells  have?"  Jim  asked, 
interested. 

The  priest  stood  up,  yawned,  looked  at  the  boy  whim- 
sically and  said,  "Perhaps  your  grandfather  was  right, 
and  it  might  be  better  to  pitch  it  all  into  the  Owneybeg." 

"What  is  the  sealing-wax  for?  Is  it  to  seal  it  all  up  in 
the  bag?"  Jim  said,  ignoring  irrelevancies. 

"We  must  make  some  pretence  of  taking  tea,  I  sup- 


Conquest  67 

pose,  seeing  that  she's  gone  to  all  this  trouble  about  it," 
the  priest  said  with  a  smile  at  the  japanned  tray  which 
had  a  bottle  and  a  recommendation  to  drink  Power's 
whisky  painted  in  bright  colours  in  the  centre.  "But 
we  can't  manage  these  eggs  after  all  the  cake  we've  eaten 
at  Scarty." 

"Oh,"  Jim  said,  a  little  perturbed.  "If  you  don't 
mind,  Father  James,  I  think  I  could  manage  to  eat  an 
egg  or  two." 

VI 

Mrs.  Scovell  was  worried.  Her  frequent  laughter 
had  a  trick  of  breaking  off  suddenly;  and  now  there  was 
a  long  pause  in  her  brisk  talk  while  she  pricked  her  ears  to 
listen.  Durkan,  the  butler,  had  ridden  into  Lisgeela  on 
his  bicycle,  and  had  promised  to  be  back  at  seven,  for 
dinner  at  a  quarter  past  eight.  It  was  twenty-seven 
minutes  past  eight  and  he  hadn't  come — at  least  he 
hadn't  announced  dinner.  She  wouldn't  have  worried 
but  it  was  Mr.  Brownlow's  first  visit,  his  first  dinner,  too, 
for  he  had  only  arrived  before  tea.  He  seemed  quite 
nice  and  simple,  but  being  English  and  official,  he  was 
sure  to  be  particular.  She  had  herself  heard  Mr.  Dasent, 
the  Chief  Secretary,  say  that  his  private  secretary  ran 
the  Lodge,  and  there  everything  was  well  done.  Of 
course,  Mr.  Brownlow  would  say  nothing,  no  matter 
how  wrong  things  went;  but  her  brother  Hamilton  was 
sure  to  make  remarks — the  Pakenhams  took  a  pride  in 
the  directness  of  their  remarks,  especially  their  remarks 
about  what  they  called  the  Southern  Irish.  Thank  God, 
she  no  longer  lived  in  Antrim,  much  as  Hamilton  thought 
of  Ulster.  And  Lord  Drumbeg?  She  shivered  a  little. 
Right  or  wrong,  the  Scovells  were  not  important  enough 
to  escape  his  censure.  With  the  governess  to  dinner,  too ! 


68  Conquest 

Miss  Fraser,  accustomed  to  the  Bohemian  ways  of 
Dublin,  wouldn't  mind,  and  there  was  only  Mr.  Len- 
taigne  outside  the  house-party.  He  was  a  neighbour 
and  would  understand.  Happily  it  was  a  beautiful  even- 
ing, and  there  had  been  no  difficulty  in  inducing  everyone 
out  on  the  west  terrace  to  admire  the  sunset.  But  if 
Durkan  wasn't  at  his  post  by  half  past,  she'd  trust 
Conroy — he'd  do  very  well  with  Betty's  help.  It  wasn't 
as  if  it  was  a  large  party. 

"  Doesn't  it  recall  angels  looking  out  of  the  gold  bar  of 
heaven,  Mr.  Brownlow?"  Miss  Grayson,  the  English 
governess,  said  sentimentally. 

"Not  half  bad — splendid,"  Brownlow  said  with  diffi- 
culty, working  himself  up  to  enthusiasm. 

"  Mr.  Brownlow  has  used  up  all  the  jewels  and  lots  of 
his  poetry  with  me,"  Miss  Fraser  said  maliciously.  "  It's 
just  a  June  sunset  over  Mooncon  and  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said." 

"We've  far  finer  sunsets  in  Antrim.  You  should  see 
'em  from  my  place  at  Bally william,"  Hamilton  Paken- 
h am  said. 

"Too  Orange  for  me,"  Miss  Fraser  said  sweetly. 
"Look  at  those  red  golds  and  greens  and  amethysts — not 
a  tinge  of  yellow  anywhere." 

"Not  in  it  with  an  Antrim  sunset,"  Pakenham  said 
stolidly. 

"I'm  getting  damn  peckish,  Theo,"  Derek  Scovell, 
large  and  fat,  his  blue  eyes  sparkling  in  a  ruddy,  clean- 
shaven face,  said  pleasantly,  in  an  undertone  to  his  wife. 

"It's  Durkan,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"What!  Not — "  he  paused,  with  a  humorous  tilt  of 
his  eyebrows. 

"I  hope  to  goodness,  not,"  she  said  in  sudden  distress, 
a  smile  struggling  with  a  tear,  her  hands  falling  limply  by 
her  sides.  "No,  I'm  sure  it's  only  a  puncture  or  some- 


Conquest  69 

thing.  He  knew  there  was  a  dinner  on,"  she  added 
pleadingly,  crimson  mounting  to  the  gold  of  her  hair. 

"Better  order  up  dinner  without  him — and  don't 
worry,  old  girl,"  he  said  with  a  shrug,  resting  his  hand 
for  a  moment  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Dinner  is  served,  milady,"  Durkan  said  in  a  carefully 
measured  tone,  as  if  in  stern  reproof  of  the  caress. 

"How  could  you,  Durkan?"  she  said  reproachfully. 
The  "milady"  instead  of  "ma'am"  didn't  always  make 
him  quite  impossible,  but  it  was  a  danger  signal. 

"I  assure  you,  milady,  I  amn't,"  he  said  carefully. 
"  I'm  as  steady  as  a  judge  or  as  the  master  there  himself." 

She  was  very  much  distressed.  Her  tall,  slender 
figure  quivered  and  her  lips  trembled  pitifully.  He  was 
all  right,  but  he  must  be  humoured.  She  hoped  Drum- 
beg  was  out  of  hearing.  What  would  Hamilton  say,  and 
Mr.  Brownlow  think?  Anyhow,  to  prevent  worse  hap- 
pening she  must  face  it. 

"What  was  it  then?"  she  said  cheerfully,  bracing 
herself. 

"It  was  all  on  the  head  of  Father  Pat  Daly,  milady. 
The  time  slipt  past  me,  and  I  within  in  the  snuggery  at 
Mallon's  with  a  few  of  the  neighbours  and  Mrs.  Mallon 
herself  leaning  across  the  bar,  with  her  elbows  on  the 
counter,  full  of  the  news.  'Tis  the  fine-looking  woman 
she  is  yet,  God  bless  her,  and  you  too,  milady.  It  wasn't 
anything  extra  in  the  way  of  drink  we  had  beyond  a  glass 
or  two — but  one  person  after  another  kept  coming  in  with 
a  fresh  item.  Struck  sudden  he  was  in  front  of  the 
Presbytery  door.  'I'm  dying,'  he  cried,  and  out  rushed 
the  bishop  and  the  priests  that  were  gathered  for  the  con- 
ference. Head  and  feet  they  lifted  him  in  on  the  confer- 
ence table,  and  they  had  only  just  time  to  clap  the  holy 
oils  on  him  when  he  gave  up  the  ghost  crying  out,  'I  call 
ye  all  to  witness  that  I  leave  everything  I  have  or  might 


7°  Conquest 

be  having  in  the  way  of  worldly  wealth  to  my  own  grand- 
nephew,  Jim  Daly  of  Scarty.' 

"They  say  how  the  bishop  and  a  scattering  of  the 
priests  went  tearing  mad  at  getting  none  of  it.  But  sorra 
ha'penny  they'll  touch,  for  the  dying  word  of  a  priest  is 
more  binding  than  a  book  oath,  Mrs.  Mallon  says. 
There's  a  divarsity  of  opinion  about  how  much  he  left,  but 
there's  no  doubt  that  there  was  ten  thousand  pounds  found 
hidden  away  under  the  seat  of  the  trap.  Father  James 
Lysaght  found  it  with  his  own  hands.  What  the  whole 
amount  is,  nobody  knows.  Father  Griffin  swore  to  Mrs. 
Mallon  that  it  was  over  thirty  thousand.  Up  and  up 
it's  been  going  since,  till,  at  half-past  seven,  Tim  Davis 
put  it  at  not  a  penny  less  than  a  hundred  thousand — and 
I  wouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  with  all  that  happened  after. 
Just  at  that  minute  Mrs.  Mallon  asked  me  by  the  way  of 
no  harm  if  we  were  going  to  have  any  dinner  at  all  at 
Dalyhouse  to-night.  I  lepped,  milady,  and  it's  God's 
truth  that  I  laid  down  the  glass  that  I  was  lifting  to  my 
lips  and  left  it  there  on  the  counter,  and  it  not  half  empty, 
and  whipped  off  on  my  bicycle." 

"The  dinner  is  being  spoilt,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  feebly. 

"Sorra  bit  of  it,  milady.  They're  busy  in  the  kitchen 
over  the  news  that  I  gave  'em  a  glimpse  of  on  my  way 
through ;  and  Mrs.  Lacy  timed  anything  that  might  be 
spoilt  for  a  quarter  to  nine,  through  her  own  good 
nature,  and  knowing  my  ways,  and  I  not  in  at  seven." 

"Thank  God,  the  dinner's  safe,"  said  Scovell  with  a 
sigh  of  relief. 

"Remember  I've  had  no  tea,  Theodora,"  Hamilton 
Pakenham  said  icily,  with  a  disapproving  glance  at  hus- 
band and  wife  and  butler. 

"There's  one  thing  more,  milady,"  Durkan  said  im- 
perturbably.  "As  I  whipped  past  the  National  Bank, 
there  was  Fagan's  car  just  drawn  up,  and  Dempsey  the 


Conquest  71 

driver  on  the  dickey,  and  Father  James  Lysaght  and 
young  Jim  Daly  together  on  one  side,  and  the  other  side 
piled  as  high  as  my  head  with  bags  and  boxes  with  a  rug 
thrown  over  'em.  And  Father  Lysaght  knocked  and  Mr. 
Murphy  the  manager  himself  came  down,  and  they  col- 
logued together  awhile  on  the  doorstep,  and  then  them- 
selves and  Dempsey  lifted  the  things  in,  a  biscuit  tin 
alone  being  that  heavy  that  Dempsey  near  sank  into  the 
pavement  under  it.  Sure  'twas  easily  known  'twas  gold 
was  in  it.  Three  of  them  there  were  and  a  carpet  bag, 
only  that  was  lighter,  full  o'  paper  money  it  was  no 
doubt." 

"And  you  were  whipping  by  all  the  time?"  Scovell 
said  drily. 

"No,  it  was  standing  I  was,  your  honour,  leaning  on 
my  bicycle,  waiting  to  see  if  I  couldn't  get  in  a  word 
afterwards  with  Dempsey.  The  dinner  is  served, 
ma'am,"  he  wound  up,  suddenly  and  sternly. 

"He's  quite  all  right  now,  Derek,"  Mrs.  Scovell  whis- 
pered joyfully. 

"You  mustn't  think,  Brownlow,  that  a  scene  like  that 
could  occur  in  my  part  of  Ireland,"  Pakenham  said  with 
emphasis,  as  they  made  their  way  along  the  terrace  to  a 
French  window  opening  into  the  dining-room.  "In  the 
North,  I  assure  you,  we  don't  gossip  with  our  servants  in 
front  of  our  guests." 

"It  was  extremely  interesting,"  Brownlow  said 
hurriedly. 

"And  so  characteristic,"  Miss  Grayson  said  gushingly. 
"Not  that  I  ever  saw  it  happen  before,  but  it  strikes 
exactly  the  right  note  of  colour,  with  the  accent,  and 
the  sunset  and  things — just  what  one  would  have 
expected." 

"It's  the  slackness  of  the  Southern  Irish — even  the 
Protestants  have  it.  Theodora  used  to  be  as  hard  as 


72  Conquest 

nails,  but  now — "  Pakenham  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
adding,  "it's  the  climate  I  suppose." 

"He's  explaining  how  the  Northern  Catholics  are  such 
fine  fellows,"  Miss  Fraser  laughed. 

"That's  different,"  Pakenham  said  hastily. 

"The  Ulster  climate  is  a  purely  Protestant  virtue," 
Lentaigne,  a  Vandyke-bearded  man  of  thirty,  said  mock- 
ingly, taking  his  seat  at  the  round  table.  "It  stiffens 
Orange  backs,  but  leaves  the  Catholics  weak-kneed." 

"It's  race  in  Ulster,"  Pakenham  said  stubbornly. 

"Blood — always  blood,"  Drumbeg  said. 

"More  than  half  of  the  Ulster  Orangemen  are  Celts," 
Lentaigne  said  drily. 

"We  can't  forget  that  we're  a  conquering  race,"  Paken- 
ham said  loftily. 

"Whom  did  you  conquer?"  asked  Miss  Fraser. 

"The  Irish,"  Pakenham  said. 

"They  seem  to  have  a  kick  in  them  still — nine  lives 
like  a  cat,  I  suppose,"  Miss  Fraser  said,  with  girlish 
simplicity.  "I'm  shockingly  ignorant  of  history,  but  I 
read  somewhere  of  James  Stuart  running  away,  some 
broken  treaty  or  another,  and  the  desertion  of  an  un- 
armed peasantry  by  their  leaders — the  Tirconnels, 
the " 

Drumbeg,  at  Mrs.  Scovell's  right,  was  perceptibly 
stiffening. 

"The  Drumbegs  always  found  themselves  on  the  win- 
ning side,  if  it  was  sufficiently  respectable,"  Lentaigne 
interrupted  with  a  laugh.  "  But  Drumbeg  dislikes  to  be 
reminded  that  his  fathers  were  once  Loyalists — I  beg  his 
pardon — rebels,  I  mean.  The  king  is  dead,  long  live  the 
king." 

Drumbeg  was  blushing  to  the  roots  of  his  sensitive  red 
hair.  He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  the  top  of 
Mrs.  Scovell's  delicate  pink  ear,  offended  dignity  in  his 


Conquest  73 

thin  pursed  lips  and  sharp  nose,  and  in  his  glazed,  grey- 
brown  eyes. 

"I  never  let  ancient  history  interfere  with  my  dinner," 
Derek  Scovell  said  pleasantly.  "What  matter  if  a 
Drumbeg  was  once  or  twice  attainted  and  thought  better 
of  it.  With  all  Pakenham's  loyalty  his  grandfather 
worked  against  the  Union,  and  said  some  nasty  things 
of  England  and  Farmer  George,  and  Pitt ;  and  his  father 
threatened  to  fling  the  poor  old  Queen's  crown  into  the 
Boyne  if  the  Irish  Church  Bill  was  passed.  She's  still 
on  the  throne,  God  bless  her,  and  Hamilton  thinks  she's 
a  good  Orangeman  because  the  Home  Rule  Bill  was  de- 
feated. This  is  excellent  salmon — we'll  whip  that  pool 
in  the  glen  again  to-morrow,  Drumbeg.  Care  to  come 
Brownlow?  I  can  give  you  a  rod.  Lentaigne  is  nibbling 
at  Home  Rule,"  he  continued  amicably,  "though  his 
family  has  one  of  the  rottenest  tar-and-feather  records 
in  the  whole  country.  They  scare  children  to  bed  about 
here,  Brownlow,  with  tales  of  what  his  great-grandfather 
— 'The  Bloody  Butcher'  he's  called — did  in  the  rebellion 
of  '98." 

"All  of  'em  true  too,  very  likely,"  Lentaigne  said 
equably. 

"Mine  was  a  patriot  then,"  Scovell  went  on.  "Yes, 
Durkan,  a  little  more  salmon — the  fat  part.  The  mob 
used  to  take  the  horses  from  his  coach  and  drag  it,  cheer- 
ing, through  the  streets  of  Dublin.  He  was  nearly 
broke,  and  he  sold  his  vote  and  his  country  to  Castle- 
reagh,  for  twenty-five  thousand.  He  preferred  all  cash 
to  part  payment  in  a  peerage.  'Twas  a  lot  of  ready 
money  to  have  all  at  once  in  those  days,  and  it  cured  his 
extravagance.  He  gave  up  politics  after  that — the  mob 
pelted  him  home  for  five  miles  along  the  Kildare  Road. 
But  where  am  I,  Theo?  I  seem  to  have  lost  the  point 
somewhere." 


74  Conquest 

"What  matter,"  his  wife  said  cheerfully,  Durkan's 
masterly  control  of  himself  and  of  the  dinner  having  com- 
pletely restored  her  spirits. 

"You  are  explaining  Ireland  to  Mr.  Brownlow,"  Miss 
Fraser  said  ironically. 

"Anyhow  the  money  was  still  at  Tullyfin  in  my  grand- 
father's time.  He  took  a  mortgage  with  it  on  the  Daly- 
house  property  and " 

"Did  the  Dalys  in  the  eye,"  Lentaigne  suggested 
smoothly. 

Scovell  laughed  heartily.  "All  that's  as  dead  as  the 
Butcher  Lentaigne,"  he  said  with  a  grin,  "and  I  have 
Dalyhouse." 

"Old  Pierce  the  peasant  reminds  you  of  it  occasion- 
ally," Lentaigne  said. 

"The  dear  old  peasant  patriot,  with  the  face  and  grace 
of  a  duke,"  Miss  Gray  son  murmured. 

"He  does,  damn  him,"  Scovell  said  moodily. 

"Derek!"  said  Mrs.  Scovell  with  affectionate  reproach. 

"Who  wouldn't  curse  an  old  meddlesome  peasant  that 
robbed  one  of  two  years'  rent?"  Scovell  said,  holding  up 
his  hands  appealingly.  "  I  had  my  tenants  well  in  hand 
till  that  damned  old  Fenian  put  in  his  oar  and  lost  me 
twenty  thousand." 

His  face  brightened  again.  "But,  thank  God,  those 
days  are  gone.  The  Parnell  split  has  broken  the  Nation- 
alists to  bits,  and  a  landlord  can  breathe  freely  again — for 
my  time  at  least.  But  speaking  of  political  records,  I  have 
the  cleanest  of  any  of  you.  My  family  helped  to  make 
the  Union,  and  the  Union  made  them.  So  naturally,  I'm 
a  Unionist — for  the  rest  I  try  to  live  and  let  live." 

"Even  Pierce  Daly?"  Lentaigne  smiled. 

"I'd  hang  all  agitators  on  the  nearest  tree,"  Scovell 
said  angrily.  "What's  the  Castle  up  to,  Brownlow, 
leaving  people  like  him  at  large?" 


Conquest  75 

Brownlow's  thin  lips  smiled  tolerantly,  and  his  brown 
eyes  showed  a  faint  interest. 

"I  agree  with  you,  Scovell,  that  the  Irish  question  has 
petered  out  in  the  Divorce  Court — 'Kilt'  but,  perhaps, 
not  'Kilt  dead,'  in  one  of  the  expressive  phrases  I've 
added  to  my  store,  since  I've  come  amongst  you.  Now 
we  wish  to  kill  it  dead,  to  stamp  it  out  once  for  all. 
While  the  Parnellites  and  anti-Parnellites  are  squabbling 
among  themselves  we  come  in  with  a  constructive 
policy." 

"Blessed  word,"  Lentaigne  murmured. 

"Repression  has  been  tried,"  Brownlow  continued 
unmoved,  "not  quite  successfully,  I'm  afraid — not  per- 
manently successfully,  anyhow.  In  the  present  propi- 
tious lull  we  have  given  a  sudden  swing  to  the  pendulum, 
and  are  trying  kindness — putting  the  blind  eye  to  the 
telescope  for  minor  political  crimes,  building  light  rail- 
ways, piers,  harbours  and  things  of  that  kind,  encourag- 
ing small  industries.  A  whole  host  of  things." 

"The  Kicks  and  Doles  policy,"  Lentaigne  said. 

"Not  Doles,"  Brownlow  said  hastily.  "Constructive 
help — helping  the  people  to  help  themselves.  The  Irish 
are  a  sentimental  people,  and  they're  sure  to  respond  to 
kindness." 

"They  have  beautiful  manners,"  Miss  Grayson  said. 

"Kick  an  angry  woman  black  and  blue,  till  she  thor- 
oughly hates  you,  then  give  her  a  chuck  under  the  chin 
and  a  ha'penny  bun,  and  she'll  lick  your  hand  with  grati- 
tude," Miss  Fraser  said  pensively. 

"Once  you  take  your  heel  off  their  necks,  you'll  have 
the  devil  to  pay,"  Pakenham  said  vehemently. 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  said  Drumbeg  with  the  timid 
aggressiveness  of  a  flurried  rabbit. 

"Railways  won't  do  any  harm,"  Scovell  said  medita- 
tively. "A  free  grant,  I  suppose?" 


76  Conquest 

Brownlow  nodded. 

"That's  all  to  the  good,"  Scovell  said  approvingly. 
"It'll  bring  money  into  the  country  and  do  good  to  all  of 
us.  And  I  don't  want  the  Government  to  be  too  hard 
on  the  people — but  the  landlords  must  be  protected. 
Put  down  the  agitators,  and  the  people  will  be  as 
quiet  as  lambs.  It's  a  disgrace  to  any  Government 
to  leave  that  old  ruffian  Pierce  Daly  loose  at  my  very 
gate." 

"Stand  up  for  your  cousin,  Drumbeg,"  Lentaigne  said 
maliciously.  "Old  Pierce  is  a  relative  of  yours." 

"I  don't  know  him,"  Drumbeg  said  stiffly. 

"His  mother  and  your  grandmother  were  first 
cousins." 

"I  don't  know  him,"  Drumbeg  repeated  icily. 

"There!"  Scovell  said,  with  triumph,  addressing 
Brownlow.  "You  see  the  sort  Daly  must  be,  when 
Drumbeg,  who's  his  cousin,  won't  acknowledge  him — a 
rebel  with  only  a  hundred  acres  of  freehold,  and  the 
Government  are  afraid  to  lay  a  hand  on  him." 

"How  can  they — if  he  has  done  nothing  illegal?" 
Brownlow  said  coldly. 

"  As  if  that  ever  stood  in  the  way,"  Scovell  said  despair- 
ingly. ' '  You'll  probably  be  giving  him  one  of  your  damn 
soup  tickets  next — a  light  railway  to  his  hall  door  or  a  pier 
in  his  garden.  The  Owneybeg  is  nice  and  convenient. 
God  be  with  the  old  times  when  only  landlords  had  these 
little  attentions.  Though  we  never  had  much  done  for  us, 
except  to  have  the  county  road  from  Lisheen  brought  up 
to  the  Tubber  gate.  And  my  father  was  chairman  of  the 
Grand  Jury  then."  He  laughed  heartily.  "He  always 
said  it  was  to  convenience  my  mother  he  did  it,  but  even 
then,  when  the  landlords  had  it  all  more  or  less  their  own 
way,  he  was  afraid  of  old  Pierce's  eye — he  disliked  driving 
past  Scarty." 


Conquest  77 

"But  you  say  the  man  is  of  small  importance — a  mere 
peasant,"  Brownlow  objected,  slightly  bewildered. 

Lentaigne  laughed  and  said,  "He  has  twice  the  power 
in  the  county  of  Scovell  and  myself." 

"It  shows  how  far  agitation  has  gone  outside  Ulster," 
Pakenham  said  gloomily.  "Dasent  should  tighten  the 
rein  instead  of  loosening  it.  A  Coercion  Act  now,  or 
martial  law." 

"Perhaps  it's  because  he's  Lord  Drumbeg's  cousin. 
Naturally  the  people  would  take  that  into  account,"  Miss 
Fraser  said  innocently,  with  a  smile  at  the  self-conscious 
peer,  whose  freckles  stood  out  like  brown  islands  in  a 
crimson  sea. 

"This  strawberry  shortbread  is  rather  dry,  Theo," 
Scovell  said,  spluttering. 

"He's  so  picturesque — sometimes  I  think  I  love  him. 
Lord  Byron  would  have  made  a  hero  of  him,"  Miss  Gray- 
son  lisped.  "The  old  rebel  I  mean — not  Lord  Drum- 
beg,"  she  explained.  But  the  explanation  was  lost  in 
Derek  Scovell's  laughter. 

"He's  no  more  a  peasant,  of  course,  than  you  or  me," 
Mrs.  Scovell  said  gaily,  addressing  the  table  through 
Brownlow,  who,  with  a  quick  memory  of  the  little  green- 
grocer's shop  in  a  back  street  of  Wakefield,  the  board 
school,  a  scholarship  at  Wakefield  Grammar  School,  and 
the  glories  of  a  Magdalen  Demy,  hastily  nodded  assent. 
"He  married  a  peasant.  Of  course,  that  was  the  last 
straw.  A  dreadful  woman,  whose  brother  was  in  jail  as  a 
Fenian,  and  whose  nephew  got  six  months  a  few  years 
ago  for  a  speech  against  the  Carngarth  Evictions — Dris- 
coll  is  the  name.  They  are  tenants  of  Derek's  at  Tully- 
fin.  But  I  must  say  for  the  old  man,  that  if  we  won't 
know  him,  he  won't  know  us.  Not  even  Hamilton  has 
half  his  pride,  nor  Mr.  Lentaigne,  who  tries  to  hide  his 
under  a  thin  cloak  of  Fenianism  and  rights  of  the  people 


7®  Conquest 

and  all  that.  He  was  born  in  this  very  house.  You  can't 
see  the  Daly  arms  very  well  in  this  light,  in  the  top  panels 
of  the  windows,  with  a  Drumbeg  quartering  too.  So 
Lord  Drumbeg  is  his  cousin  on  both  sides.  Derek  dis- 
likes him  partly  because  he's  a  Daly.  There's  not  the 
least  use  in  trying  to  deny  it,  Derek,  or  in  making  faces  at 
me  like  that.  Of  course,  Pierce  the  peasant  has  been  a 
dreadful  nuisance  about  the  land  and  deserves  to  be  shot 
for  it.  But  the  real  reason  of  Derek's  dislike — see  how 
he  blushes — is  Arabella  Levin.  She  refused  him  and 
married  Theobald  Daly,  old  Pierce's  son.  That  was 
before  Derek  met  me,  of  course.  I've  always  been  dying 
to  meet  her,  just  to  find  out  what  he  saw  in  her,  but  I've 
never  had  the  chance.  Her  own  people  cut  her  and,  of 
course,  everyone  else  had  to  follow — the  Scovells  would 
have  in  any  case.  Though  there  isn't  one  in  the  county 
to-day  who  could  tell  whether  they're  cutting  her  or  she 
them.  Derek  doesn't  care  for  her  any  more — she  only 
rankles.  But  he  hated  Theobald  and  doesn't  love  the  old 
father.  Nonsense,  Derek,  it  is  quite  interesting,  and  it's 
not  time  to  go.  You'd  like  to  have  coffee  here,  Helen? " 

"Rather,"  Miss  Fraser  smiled. 

Brownlow  was  feeling  very  much  at  sea,  and  ate  a 
cr£me  de  menthe  sweet,  which  he  disliked,  in  a  mental 
struggle  for  his  bearings.  They  were  all  children,  these 
Irish,  landlords  and  tenants,  and  needed  a  leading  string. 

"You'll  go  to  the  funeral,  of  course,  Drumbeg?"  Len- 
taigne  said. 

Drumbeg  fidgeted,  blushed  and  said  coldly,  "I'll 
send  a  carriage.  I  always  send  a  carriage  to  parish 
priests'  funerals — within  a  convenient  distance.  It's 
due  to  my  position  as  the  leading  Catholic  in  the  county." 

"  Cave, "  Scovell  said  cautiously.  ' '  That  will  do,  Dur- 
kan.  You  can  all  go  now.  Leave  the  liqueurs  and  the 
port  on  the  table.  It's  all  right  to  discuss  politics  before 


Conquest  79 

the  servants,"  he  added  when  they  had  left  the  room, 
"and  even  one's  family  affairs,"  with  a  chiding  look  at 
his  wife,  "but  religion's  never  safe.  I'd  be  inclined  to 
send  a  carriage  myself  but  I'd  be  afraid  of  old  Pierce — as 
likely  as  not  he'd  kick  it  out  of  the  funeral.  Father  Pat 
was  a  decent  old  man.  He  had  the  grass  of  two  bullocks 
from  me  off  a  farm  I  have  in  Drisheen,  and  there  never 
was  a  word  between  us.  He  didn't  meddle  in  politics." 

"He  must  have  been  a  damned  old  scoundrel — they  all 
are,"  Pakenham  said  warmly.  "You'll  excuse  me, 
Drumbeg — Irish  priests  I  mean.  I  know  you  don't  hold 
a  brief  for  'em.  English  priests  are  different — Unionists 
and  gentlemen,  the  few  of  'em  I've  met.  And  this  story 
Durkan  told — I  don't  admire  the  way  you  deal  with 
your  servants,  Theo,  but  I  had  to  listen.  What  was  it — 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds  ground  off  the  faces  of  the 
poor." 

"It  only  grew  to  that  in  Mallon's  snuggery,"  Scovell 
said  tolerantly.  ' '  And  Durkan  was  pretty  sure  to  round 
it  off — say,  twenty  thousand.  He  never  spent  a  penny." 

"What  a  sound  Unionist  he  was,"  Lentaigne  said 
mockingly.  "Why  he  deserved  an  Orange  crown, 
Pakenham,  to  take  all  that  money  from  Catholic  National- 
ists, who  might  otherwise  have  spent  it  on  agitation." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  Pakenham  admitted. 

"I  think  there  must  have  been  some  exaggeration," 
Brownlow  said,  a  little  eagerly,  glad  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  disclosing  his  knowledge  of  the  country.  ' '  Even 
the  amount  you  suggest,  Scovell,  is  impossible.  Happily 
my  information  is  official  and  beyond  question.  Some 
fussy  persons  made  a  row  about  Irish  priests  not  paying 
income-tax.  Dasent  consulted — why  Lord  Drumbeg,  I 
remember  it  was  your  bishop  here,  Dr.  Deehan,  a  most 
convincing  man.  I  was  present,  and  he  made  it  clear  to 
us  that  no  Irish  priests  came  within  the  taxable  limit. 


8o  Conquest 

The  whole  story  must  have  arisen  in — what  was  the 
excellent  epithet? — Mallon's  snuggery."  He  gave  an 
assured  laugh,  but  a  little  regretted  his  triumph  in  the 
discomfiture  of  all  his  listeners. 

"  Don't  be  stopping  the  sun  in  its  course,  Lentaigne," 
Scovell  said,  purple  from  the  repressing  of  a  choking 
in  his  throat.  ' '  The  port  is  freezing  at  your  elbow. ' ' 

Lentaigne  said  "Oh,"  as  if  waking  from  a  dream,  and 
Drumbeg's  fish-like  eyes  twinkled. 

"The  poor  priests!  and  we  all  supposed  them  to  have 
at  least  the  income  of  carpenters,"  Miss  Fraser  said 
languidly. 

"  If  he  left  any  money  it  goes  to  the  people  at  Scarty," 
Lentaigne  said,  with  a  glance  at  Brownlow,  as  if  begging 
forgiveness  for  the  assumption. 

"Gad,  I  forgot  that,"  Scovell  said  gloomily.  "If  old 
Pierce  has  the  handling  of  it,  he'll  only  kick  up  more 
trouble." 

"I'm  glad  for  the  boy's  sake — he  seems  nice,"  Mrs. 
Scovell  said  tolerantly.  "He'll  have  a  chance  of  some 
education." 

"They  tell  me  Pierce  is  bringing  him  up  a  Fenian  like 
himself.  Education  will  only  make  him  worse,"  Scovell 
said  angrily. 

The  Irish,  even  the  best  of  them,  were  an  extraordinary 
people,  building  all  sorts  of  superstructures  on  purely 
imaginary  hypotheses,  Brownlow  thought.  ' '  A  legacy  of 
nothing  won't  help  him  much,"  he  said  playfully. 

"Nothing  could  be  truer  than  that,"  Scovell  said 
solemnly,  with  an  appraising  look,  as  if  Brownlow  were  a 
museum  specimen. 

"I  always  said  that  Ulstermen  are  needed  at  the 
Castle,"  Pakenham  said  with  suppressed  anger.  "Or 
even  a  loyal  Catholic  like  you,  Drumbeg — I'm  not 
bigoted." 


Conquest  81 

"God  bless  me — Pakenham  isn't  weakening  on  the 
English  connection,"  Lentaigne  said  with  a  horrified 
expression. 

"Dasent  is  as  good  as  the  rest,"  Scovell  said  with  a 
laugh.  "Orange,  or  green,  or  red,  or  Lentaigne,  what- 
ever colour  he  is — we  all  treat  the  priests  the  same.  We 
mayn't  like  them — even  Drumbeg  hasn't  a  good  word  for 
them — but  wherever  I  have  a  grass  farm  I  give  the  parish 
priest  his  due  of  bullocks.  It  pays  in  the  long  run.  And 
occasionally  you  get  a  bishop  like  Deehan  who's  a  real 
trump.  Perhaps  Dasent  didn't  make  much  of  a  mis- 
take in  giving  way  to  him  about  the  income-tax.  No 
doubt  [he  likes  to  get  a  good  deal,  but  he  spends  it 
freely,  and  he's  a  good  friend  to  the  landlords  and  to 
England." 

"He's  not  an  archbishop  yet,"  Lentaigne  said  drily. 
"You've  a  lot  of  influence  in  Rome,  Drumbeg. " 

"I  have  the  honour  of  knowing  His  Holiness,  who 
deigns  to  discuss  spiritual  matters  with  me  on  occasion," 
Drumbeg  said  primly. 

"  Then  no  doubt  you  discussed  Deehan — he's  a  spiritual 
matter  of  some  weight." 

"  He's  an  excellent  prelate  with  a  profound  belief  in  the 
rights  of  property,"  Drumbeg  said  reprovingly. 

"He  keeps  a  foot  in  the  other  camp  for  safety,"  Len- 
taigne said  laughing. 

Drumbeg  frowned.  "Only  as  a  restraining  influence 
I  assure  you.  He  convinced  me " 

"As  he  did  Dasent  about  the  income-tax,"  Lentaigne 
interrupted.  "He's  able  enough.  He  was  a  moderate 
Home  Ruler  when  Gladstone  was  in.  He's  a  moderate 
Unionist  now.  I  expect  to  see  him  a  Republican  some 
day.  Do  you  see  much  of  his  priests,  Drumbeg?" 

"I'm  as  likely  to  see  my  peasants,"  Drumbeg  said,  half 
shrinking,  half  shuddering.  "They  are  too  impossible. 
* 


82  Conquest 

When  they  don't  drink  they  snuff,  and  few  of  'em  change 
their  linen." 

"Deehan  does,  I  suppose,"  Lentaigne  said  coldly. 

"  Dr.  Deehan  is  a  bishop,"  Drumbeg  said  with  a  shrug. 

"Then  of  course  he  doesn't  need  to.  If  you  won't 
meet  your  priests  or  the  peasantry,  how  can  you  call 
yourself  the  leading  Catholic  in  the  county?" 

"  I  am  a  Catholic,  therefore  I  am  the  leading  Catholic," 
Drumbeg  lisped  with  all  the  patience  of  an  infant  teacher. 

"You  spoke  of  a  Republic,  Lentaigne,"  Brownlow  said 
mildly.  "Rather  far-fetched,  isn't  it ? " 

"Far-fetched  but  not  impossible,  if  you  drive  'em  to 
it,"  Lentaigne  said  thoughtfully.  "This  is  a  country 
where  we  speak  of  our  great-grandfathers  as  you  do  of 
men  of  your  year  at  the  'Varsity.  In  England  you  live 
in  the  present.  Your  past  is  a  record,  and  a  fine  one,  of 
a  more  or  less  ordered  procession  of  liberty.  You  be- 
headed a  king  and  deposed  another,  but  you  can  look  on 
it  all  now  without  passion.  What  seemed  crimes  to 
Royalists  and  Jacobites  are  now  only  landmarks  of 
political  change.  But  the  Irish  have  a  sort  of  timeless 
memory  of  England  as  an  ogre,  a  sort  of  shameless  and 
unscrupulous  tyrant  who  robbed  them  of  liberty  and 
oppressed  them  relentlessly.  Henry  the  Eighth, 
Elizabeth,  Cromwell,  William  of  Orange,  are  merely  steps 
in  your  political  evolution.  You  forget  their  crimes, 
if  they  were  crimes,  in  the  good  they  did — for  England. 
In  Ireland  they  are  murderers  and  pillagers  who  have 
never  died.  They  live  on  as  symbols  of  England.  You 
progress  from  Tory  to  Whig,  from  Whig  to  Radical,  from 
Radical  to  Socialist,  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  seesaw,  but  deep 
down  in  Irish  minds  you  are  all  still  the  bloody  Crom- 
wellian  murderers  who  bore  bleeding  children  through 
the  street  of  Drogheda  on  pike  tip,  over  two  hundred 
years  ago.  Your  heroes  are  their  devils  and  their  devils 


Conquest  83 

are  you.  Even  the  good-natured  Dasent  is  a  bloody 
tyrant  bearing  Greek  gifts.  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  sur- 
prised to  find  people  who  really  believed  that  his  light 
railways  were  traps  in  which  to  maim  or  kill  people, " 
he  wound  up,  with  a  huge  laugh. 

"But  this  is  sheer  madness,"  Brownlow  gasped. 
"It's  the  normal  condition  which  an  English  historian 
who  knew  anything  of  psychology  would  expect  to  find 
— has  frequently  found,  in  fact — in  any  subject  country 
not  subject  to  England.  In  the  Italian  provinces  and 
Bohemia  under  Austria,  in  the  Poles  under  their  many 
masters,  in  the  Christian  races  under  Turkey." 

"  But,  good  Lord,  to  speak  of  us  in  the  same  breath  as 
the  Turk,"  Brownlow  said  in  indignant  astonishment. 

Lentaigne  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  should  hear 
Pierce  Daly,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "He  gives  you 
credit  for  all  the  vices  of  the  Turk,  and  adds  to  them  a 
special  brand  of  hypocrisy  of  which,  he  says,  he'd  be 
ashamed  to  accuse  the  Turk." 

"  This  can't  be  true? "  Brownlow  asked,  with  a  helpless 
look  round  the  table. 

"They  hate  you,  right  enough,"  Scovell  said  with  a 
laugh.  "But  there  isn't  much  vice  in  them  at  the 
bottom.  Keep  on  dribbling  little  things  to  them  and 
they'll  keep  quiet.  Only  you  must  protect  the  land- 
lords— they're  the  bulwarks  of  England." 

"If  my  estates  weren't  here  I'd  never  come  to  Ireland 
— the  people  are  so  damnably  vulgar  and  ungrateful," 
Drumbeg  lisped  in  his  piping,  shrill  voice.  "  Often  I  feel 
ashamed  of  sharing  their  religion.  Even  the  priests  are 
savages.  I  frequently  bring  over  an  English  chaplain 
with  me  to  avoid  listening  to  a  degradation  of  our  beauti- 
ful holy  Catholic  service." 

Pakenham  sniffed  a  little  at  this,  but  he  controlled  his 
contempt  and  said  vehemently,  "Hear  that,  Brownlow. 


84  Conquest 

Drumbeg,  one  of  the  best  and  oldest  Catholics,  can't 
stand  them.  They  hate  you  and  they  hate  us.  The 
only  way  with  them  is  to  keep  a  heavy  heel  on  their  necks. 
Only  an  Orangeman  can  understand  an  Irishman — 
Dasent  is  too  sentimental.  Gifts  are  no  use.  The  Irish 
always  snap  at  the  hand  that  feeds  them.  Resolute 
government  is  what  they  need,  and  plenty  of  it.  There's 
no  real  lull  in  their  politics — there  never  is  in  hate.  It 
will  all  break  out  again.  I  appeal  to  Lentaigne." 

Lentaigne  pulled  his  trim  beard,  a  mocking  light  in  his 
blue  eyes.  "It's  all  hours,  and  I've  to  drive  six  miles. 
You  promised  to  play  for  us,  Mrs.  Scovell,  and  Miss  Fraser 
to  sing,  and  we're  boring  you  with  fusty  politics.  What 
are  we  to  do?" 

"The  stroke  is  with  you,"  Miss  Fraser  said  with  an 
encouraging  smile. 

"Then  I'll  bore  you  with  another  speech,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh. 

"Hear,  hear,"  she  said  gaily,  "and  give  it  hot  to  the 
Orangemen  and  the  English." 

"And  you  were  born  in  Ulster,"  Pakenham  said 
gloomily. 

"But  I'm  not  condemned  to  die  blind,"  she  said  with 
a  shrug.  "Go  on,  Mr.  Letaigne,"  fixing  him  with  her 
large  brown  eyes.  He  looked  at  her  with  half -closed  lids, 
and  she  lowered  her  eyes  quickly. 

"I'm  a  moderate  man  on  a  fence,  trying  to  use  my 
eyes,"  he  said,  his  eyes  still  on  Miss  Fraser. 

"Indeed,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  derisively,  with  one 
implication. 

"You're  seeing  from  the  other  side  of  the  fence 
already,"  her  husband  said,  thinking  of  politics. 

"I  agree  with  Pakenham  that  the  Parnell  split  hasn't 
killed  the  Home  Rule  demand — it's  about  the  only  thing 
in  which  we  agree.  Little  disputes  between  Parnellites 


Conquest  85 

and  anti-Parnellites  hardly  touch  the  issue.  Redmond 
and  Dillon,  O'Brien  and  Tim  Healy  disagree  about 
means — a  mere  surface  disturbance  on  a  deep  sea.  These 
storms  in  a  teacup  don't  lessen  the  passionate  sense  of 
wrong  of  Ireland  against  England,  nor  the  passionate 
feeling  for  liberty  that  has  survived  a  hundred  defeats. 
They  may  change  the  form  of  an  organization,  pull  down 
one  figure  head  and  exalt  another.  The  bishops  fuss 
about  sin  and  Gladstone  about  the  Nonconformist 
conscience,  but  in  the  long  run  all  England  gets  out  of  it  is 
an  added  reputation — if  that  were  possible — for  hypo- 
crisy. It  doesn't  surprise  me  in  the  least  that  there  are 
people  in  Ireland  who  believe  that  the  Government  faked 
the  divorce  case.  All  Ireland  in  a  few  years  will  believe 
that  England  killed  Parnell.  You  break  a  whip  in  one 
man's  hand  and  sow  a  whole  country  with  scorpions. 
There's  not  even  the  lull  you  speak  of.  The  whole 
country  at  this  moment  is  seething  with  a  new  life — this 
new-fangled  co-operation,  a  movement  for  keeping  alive 
the  language,  for  studying  history,  for  promoting  Irish 
industries,  and  they  are  only  a  few  of  the  many  symptoms 
of  a  new  spirit  of  self-reliance.  My  dear  Brownlow, 
you  may  as  well  try  to  stop  the  Shannon  with  a  sieve, 
as  hope  to  kill  the  Irish  demand  for  liberty  with  the  gift 
of  a  railway.  If  you  keep  an  innocent  man  locked 
up  manacled  in  a  dark  cell,  you  can't  expect  gratitude 
for  the  gift  of  a  chocolate  cream.  There's  only  one  way 
of  earning  his  gratitude — and  if  you  get  it  then  it  is 
because  he  is  magnanimous — and  that  is  by  letting  him 
out.  That's  the  only  kindness  that  will  kill  Home  Rule. 
If  the  English  were  an  imaginative  people,  and  not 
merely  sentimental,  they'd  free  Ireland  to-morrow  in 
reparation  and  remorse  for  wrongs  and  injuries.  Happily 
the  Irish  are  imaginative  and  can  admire  and  respect  the 
bold  gesture — they  may  even  forgive  you.  There  is  just 


86  Conquest 

one  glimmer  of  hope  in  the  whole  sorry  business.  Paken- 
ham  says  the  Irish  hate  you.  They  don't.  They  think 
you  hate  them.  They  can't  believe  that  the  cumulation 
of  wrongs  you've  done  them  can  come  of  anything  but  an 
intense,  persistent  hatred — even  their  imagination  fails 
to  fathom  English  stupidity.  Oh,  I  know  you  don't  hate 
them — you  needn't  trouble  to  say  it.  I  only  tell  you 
what  the  Irish  think — with  some  reason  too.  If  there  is 
any  hatred  at  all  it  is  with  us  so-called  Loyalists  here — a 
bitter  frightened  hate  that  is  capable  of  any  sort  of 
insanity." 

"By  God,  he's  gone  over  to  the  rebels,"  Pakenham 
said  furiously. 

Drumbeg's  slender  body  seemed  to  shrink  as  he  mur- 
mured, "To  those  vulgarians." 

Scovell  swallowed  a  glass  of  port  hastily,  a  troubled 
look  in  his  open  face.  "You  don't  mean  all  that,  you 
know,  Lentaigne,"  he  said  with  a  worried  laugh,  slightly 
banging  his  empty  glass  on  the  table.  "You  are  just 
pulling  Brownlow's  leg  and  taking  a  rise  out  of  Drumbeg 
and  Hamilton.  They  rise  to  any  old  fly.  But  I'm  too 
old  a  friend  not  to  know  you.  You're  as  English  as  I  am, 
and  a  good  Protestant — we  don't  want  any  Orangemen 
down  here.  But  there's  reason  in  everything.  Live, 
and  let  live,  I  say,  but  stick  to  your  class.  Lentaigne  is  a 
devil  for  views,"  he  added,  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand  to  his 
other  guests;  "he  was  just  airing  them." 

Brownlow  flicked  the  ash  off  his  cigarette  medita- 
tively. 

"Very  picturesque  —  reminds  me  of  a  Magdalen 
brekker  when  we  were  all  younger,"  he  said,  half  with 
a  cool  insolence,  half  admiringly.  "Dasent  would  be 
interested  in  the  point  of  view.  It's  a  distortion  of 
history  of  course,  but  interesting  for  its  survival  value. 
What  civilization  the  Irish  have,  we  gave  'em.  They 


Conquest  87 

repaid  us  with  outrage  and  rebellion,  but  as  befits  a  great 
empire,  with  large  responsibilities  towards  subject  races, 
we've  been  patient,  infinitely  patient.  And  we  are  get- 
ting our  reward.  Despite  what  you  all  say,  things  are 
growing  quieter.  Dasent  and  I  have  been  keeping  our 
eyes  open,  and  we  know.  Experience  in  administration 
gives  one  skill  in  reading  the  signs.  The  people  are  com- 
ing round  slowly  but  surely.  Only  yesterday  a  bishop 
proposed  a  vote  of  thanks  to  Dasent  for  the  Ballycourcey 
railway.  A  few — poets  mostly — give  expression  to 
extreme  views,  but  poets  break  no  bones.  We  are  even 
thinking  of  extending  the  bounds  of  freedom — what  was 
it  Tennyson  said? — and  make  the  bounds  of  freedom 
wider  yet !  We  have  been  elaborating  a  new  conception 
of  the  Union.  What  is  Ireland  after  all  but  an  English 
county  ?  All  the  people  speak  English — at  least  of  a  sort. 
Why  not  give  them  county  councils  on  the  English 
model?" 

"And  destroy  the  power  of  our  Grand  Juries,"  Paken- 
ham  said,  horrified. 

Lentaigne  laughed.  ' '  Have  you  read  Anatole  France's 
L'Etui  du  Nacre,  Brownlow?  The  first  story — a  tale 
about  Pontius  Pilate — is  the  portrait,  for  all  time,  of  an 
Irish  Chief  Secretary." 

"I  never  read  novels — but  Dasent  might  be  inter- 
ested," Brownlow  said  condescendingly. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  Ireland,  Mr.  Brownlow? " 
Miss  Fraser  asked  pertly. 

"Three  months." 

"Wonderful!  To  have  learnt  mere  about  us  than  we 
know  ourselves — in  such  a  short  time,"  she  said  admir- 
ingly. 

"  It's  the  bringing  of  a  fresh  mind  to  bear  on  your  prob- 
lems, Miss  Fraser,  and — if  I  may  say  so — an  open  mind," 
he  said,  with  a  mixture  of  modesty  and  pride. 


88  Conquest 

Mrs.  Scovell  stopped  the  retort  that  was  twitching 
on  Miss  Fraser's  lips  by  a  sharp — 

"Come,  let's  all  go  to  the  music  room,  Helen.  Mr. 
Lentaigne  must  have  your  song  before  he  goes." 

There  was  a  movement  of  chairs,  a  patting  of  skirts,  a 
pulling  down  of  waistcoats,  and  a  vague  muttering : 

Drumbeg  to  himself,  "Even  one's  own  class  in  Ireland 
is  becoming  impossible — they  are  little  better  than 
peasants — all  of  'em." 

Pakenham,  half  aloud,  "I'm  damned.  Lentaigne  too. 
A  halter  is  too  good  for  him." 

Mrs.  Scovell  to  Miss  Fraser,  "Weren't  you  bored  to 
death,  my  dear?" 

"I'll  give  the  fellow  a  talking  to  when  I  get  him  alone 
— knock  all  the  nonsense  out  of  him,"  Scovell  muttered 
fiercely  to  his  napkin  as  he  pitched  it  on  to  his  chair. 
"What  would  become  of  the  country  if  the  landlords 
turned  rebels  ? ' 

"All  very  characteristic — very  Irish.  Dasent  will  be 
amused,"  Brownlow  formed  on  his  tongue  behind 
expressionless  lips. 

"These  political  discussions  are  most  useful,"  Miss 
Gray  son  said  aloud  to  no  one  in  particular.  "They 
bring  the  two  peoples  closer  together.  I  always  sus- 
pected that  the  Irish  were  really  English,  and  Mr. 
Brownlow  has  convinced  me — a  little  more  picturesque, 
perhaps." 

Lentaigne  drew  abreast  of  Miss  Fraser  as  she  reached 
the  door  of  the  long  dining-room. 

"You  meant  it  all?"  she  said  eagerly. 

"To  start  with,  I  don't  know.  But  it  grew  on  me.  I 
suppose  I've  been  feeling  like  that  for  some  time." 

"  I  knew  it  all  along." 

"I  never  see  you,"  he  said,  interested  in  a  pink 
profile. 


Conquest  89 

In  the  big  stone  hall,  the  walls  hung  round  with  rifles 
arranged  in  fans,  she  said  irrelevantly : 

' '  Pray  for  a  south  wind  for  me  to-morrow.  I'm  fishing 
over  Grange  Con  reach  in  the  afternoon — only  Diana." 

"Oh,"  he  said  reflectively. 

"I  wonder  what  that  woman  at  Scarty  will  do  now 
that  she's  got  some  money,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  to  Drum- 
beg  at  the  music-room  door.  "The  boy  is  quite 
presentable." 

VII 

Jim  Daly  opened  his  eyes  to  a  column  of  sunlight 
falling  slantwise  across  his  bed  from  the  circular  pane  at 
the  top  of  the  window  on  his  right,  to  a  silver  disc  on  the 
wall  paper.  His  eyes,  heavy  with  sleep,  closed  again. 
He  stretched  his  legs  and  wriggled  his  toes  luxuriously, 
dimly  conscious  that  it  was  late.  He  opened  one  eye 
cautiously  and  counted  the  little  sprigs  of  rose  on  the 
wall  paper  from  the  corner  of  the  room  to  the  bright  patch. 
He  was  late,  of  course,  for  the  sun  should  have  been 
coming  through  the  window  by  the  washstand.  Eight, 
nine,  ten — plenty  of  time  for  breakfast.  A  wagtail 
pecked  at  a  pane  beside  him.  He  looked  at  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, heaved  back  the  bedclothes  suddenly  and,  with  a 
kick  and  a  bound,  was  on  the  floor.  His  birthday — and 
to  forget  it  like  this.  He  ran  to  the  small  dressing-table 
and  gave  a  long  sigh  of  satisfaction.  He  took  up  a  new 
half-crown,  spun  it  into  the  air,  and,  as  it  rested  in  his 
palm,  sighed  again,  but  this  time  with  faint  regret. 
Well,  there  would  be  sixpence  over.  He'd  pay  Dick 
Kavanagh  his  two  shillings  the  first  thing.  The  rabbits 
— oh,  bother!  He  had  promised  them  a  feed  at  seven 
and  it  was  now  a  quarter  past  eight  if  it  was  a  minute. 
He  stared  dismally  at  a  tin  of  hot  water.  He  looked 


90  Conquest 

round  the  room  carefully.  There  was  nothing  except — 
he  handled  new  knickers  contemptuously — and  he  big 
enough  for  trousers,  too.  He  smiled  confidently  and 
continued  his  examination  of  the  room — his  mother 
wasn't  likely  to  make  a  whole  birthday  out  of  new  clothes. 
They  just  happened.  Was  it  something  too  big  to  bring 
upstairs?  Or  maybe  it  was  in  her  own  room?  He 
walked  on  tiptoe  to  the  open  door  leading  to  his  mother's 
room  and  peeped  in.  She  had  beaten  him  out  to-day — it 
was  that  old  drive  to  Drisheen  did  it  all.  Though  it  was 
fun  driving  home  with  Dempsey  all  alone  and  it  almost 
dark — after  nine,  the  latest  he  had  ever  been  out.  It  was 
no  use — there  was  nothing  there  either.  Would  it  be  in 
a  case,  or  would  his  grandfather  have  fixed  it  up — a  fly 
on  and  all?  If  only  his  Uncle  Pat  hadn't  died  at  such  an 
inconvenient  time  he'd  have  been  downstairs  long  ago  and 
seen  it.  It  was  fine  though,  sitting  up  till  long  after  ten, 
and  eating  a  supper  as  if  he  were  a  mother  or  a  grand- 
father, and  his  mother  giving  one  every  chance  to  de- 
scribe everything  down  to  the  putting  the  money  into  the 
safe  at  the  bank,  and  his  grandfather  listening  to  every 
word  though  he  pretended  to  be  reading  a  speech  of  John 
Redmond's.  He  hadn't  yet  said  his  prayers.  He  wan- 
dered back  disconsolately  to  his  own  room,  derived  a 
momentary  pleasure  from  catching,  with  a  sweep  of  his 
hand,  a  blue-bottle  which  had  buzzed  in  through  the 
open  window.  He  listened  to  it  buzz  for  a  moment  in  his 
shut  palm  and,  with  a  sigh,  let  it  fly  up  the  wide  chimney. 
Should  he  say  his  prayers  first  or  wash  first?  With  an- 
other sigh  he  knelt  on  the  strip  of  carpet  beside  the  bed, 
shut  his  eyes  firmly,  and  got  through  the  "  Our  Father, " 
with  no  other  distraction  than  that  the  rabbits  wanted 
cleaning  out.  At  the  "Hail  Mary"  his  eyes  had  some- 
how opened,  had  fixed  themselves  on  the  half-crown 
thrown  carelessly  on  the  bed,  and  he  was  wondering  just 


Conquest 


how  new  it  was.  Inextricably  mixed  with  a  hissing 
expression  of  belief  in  the  mysteries  of  the  Creed  was  a 
firm  conviction  that  the  wheel  would  be  silver  —  not 
real  silver,  of  course  —  and  not  brass.  He  confessed  his 
sins  with  wandering  eyes  —  it  folded  up  so  small  that  it 
might  have  fallen  down  somewhere  and  got  hidden.  He 
began  the  act  of  contrition  with  a  feeling  of  despair,  mut- 
tering aloud,  "Oh,  my  God,  I  am  heartily  sorry," 
stopped  suddenly,  his  eyes  glued  to  the  open  window  by 
the  washstand,  swooped  up  from  his  knees  with  a  long- 
drawn,  incredulous,  "Oh,"  and  in  a  second  was  fingering 
tenderly,  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open,  the  top  of  a  fishing- 
rod.  He  leant  out  so  as  to  get  a  full  view  of  the  glisten- 
ing idol  resting  on  the  doorstep  —  fixed  up  and  all,  with  a 
silver  wheel  and  a  fly  tied  on  —  it  was  his  grandfather  did 
that.  And  the  bait-tackle  in  its  little  wooden  frame  sit- 
ing as  quiet  as  quiet  on  the  rush-bottom  chair.  And  the 
new  basket  slung  on  the  arm.  It  was  the  very  rod  that 
he  had  shown  his  mother  in  the  window  of  Lanigan's  shop 
at  Lisgeela.  Wasn't  she  a  brick  to  know  that  he  was 
dying  for  it,  and  he  not  letting  her  know  that  he  wanted 
it  even  one  tiny  bit  —  and  it  fifteen  shillings,  too.  Talk 
about  wonders  —  why,  he  had  hardly  dared  to  hope.  He 
hadn't  hoped,  he  had  just  only  thought,  and  there  it  was. 
He  craned  his  neck  out  farther  —  yes,  and  there  was  the 
brown  canvas  case  almost  hidden  by  the  roses.  Standing 
stiff,  too;  it  must  have  in  it  the  extra  strong  top-length 
of  rod  for  bait  fishing. 

"What's  up  with  the  boy  at  all  and  he  so  late?"  his 
grandfather  grumbled  from  within  the  depths  of  the  door 
opening  on  the  lawn. 

"I  suppose  I  must  get  him  up  for  school,"  his  mother 
said  regretfully.  "He  was  up  too  late  last  night." 

"Yerra,  and  what  does  it  matter  about  school?  Let 
the  boy  have  his  sleep  out,"  his  grandfather  said  pettishly. 


92  Conquest 

"Caught  out.  Coo-ey — coo-ey,  mother,  grand- 
father," Jim  cried  delightedly.  "Oh,  tha-anks,  tha- 
anks,  mother  and  grandfather,"  he  shouted,  as  the  tops 
of  their  heads  appeared  beneath  him.  "I've  never  seen 
anything  grander  than  the  rod — nor  than  the  half- 
crown,  either,"  he  added  valiantly.  "I'm  a  grown  man 
now." 

"I  wish  the  day  was  darker  and  that  he  could  try  the 
rod  with  some  chance  of  a  fish,"  his  grandfather  said, 
anxiously  peering  at  a  cloudless  blue  sky,  "and  what 
wind  there's  in  it  is  from  the  east,"  he  added  regretfully. 

"For  shame,  father.  Do  you  want  rain  for  the  hay- 
makers?" Arabella  said  chidingly. 

"Well,  maybe  you're  right,"  Pierce  said  half-heartedly. 

"  As  if  I  wouldn't  try  the  rod  in  any  case.  There's  sure 
to  be  fish  in  any  weather  with  a  rod  like  this,"  Jim  said 
hopefully. 

"Not  dressed,  lazybones.  And  breakfast  almost  on 
the  table,"  his  mother  said  reprovingly. 

"Oh,  I  forgot — but,"  as  an  extenuating  plea,  "I've 
said  my  prayers;  I'll  be  down  in  a  jiff.  I  suppose  you 
couldn't  pass  the  rod  up  to  me,  mother?  I'm  afraid  of 
lifting  it  by  the  top  for  fear  of  breaking  it." 

" Certainly  not!"  she  said  sharply.  "  Do  hurry  down, 
Jim." 

With  a  last,  fond  look  at  the  rod  he  turned  away,  sigh- 
ing. He  took  the  can  of  water  in  his  hand,  but  put  it 
down  at  once  and  ran  again  to  the  window. 

"Say,  mother,  you  haven't  wished  me  a  happy  birth- 
day," he  said  reproachfully. 

"The  boy  is  incorrigible,"  she  said,  wafting  him  a  kiss 
with  a  smile. 

He  washed  and  dressed  hastily  and  was  struggling  with 
his  tie  when  he  thought  of  Cornelius  Nepos — ten  lines 
and  not  one  done.  He  hadn't  even  opened  his  satchel— 


Conquest  93 

that  was  Father  Pat  again.  But  perhaps  Father  Mao 
donald  wouldn't  call  him  to-day.  The  day  was  so  warm 
the  Miss  Curleys  would  probably  go  to  the  sea  and  there 
would  be  no  lessons  at  all.  He  took  the  stairs  at  a  head- 
long pace,  two  steps  at  a  time,  and  ran  into  Susan  at  the 
bottom.  He  saw  a  kiss  and  a  hug  in  her  eyes  and  out- 
stretched arms  and  wished  she  wouldn't.  But  there  was 
sure  to  be  a  surprise  to-day  in  his  luncheon  packet 
which  she  had  in  her  hand.  He  wondered  where  she  had 
hidden  the  birthday  cake — and  submitted.  Susan  was 
an  old  dear,  and  her  cakes  the  best  in  the  world,  but  her 
kisses  were  hot  and  sticky,  not  nice  and  cool  like  his 
mother's.  He  made  straight  for  the  garden  door  and  the 
rod,  tested  it  over  a  flower  bed  and  caught  a  petal.  He 
looked  at  the  river  doubtfully,  but  his  mother's  warning 
voice  made  him  put  down  the  rod  with  a  reluctant  sight. 
He  kissed  his  mother  and  grandfather  perfunctorily,  lost 
in  a  calculation  of  when  at  the  earliest,  and  where,  he 
could  fish  in  the  afternoon.  The  long  willow  pool  in  the 
glen  above  Grange  Con,  where  his  granduncle's  land 
meared  the  river,  was  a  famous  place,  shaded  even  in  the 
heat  of  the  day.  He  could  easily  get  to  the  Driscolls'  by 
five,  leave  Crabbit  there,  have  an  hour  and  a  half  where 
as  granduncle  Teige  Driscoll  said,  "Trout  as  long  as  a 
gossoon's  arm,  and  twice  as  thick,  are  plenty  as  starlings, 
and  one  or  two  of  'em'd  be  sure  to  rise  if  you'd  only  coax 
'em  enough. "  He  ate  hot  scones — an  unusual  treat — as 
if  they  were  a  daily  happening.  Suddenly  he  shot  out  of 
his  chair  with  a  cry : 

"The  rabbits— I  must  feed  'em." 

"They're  fed  long  since,"  his  grandfather  said  drily. 
"Better  have  another  hot  cake." 

"Oh,  these  are  hot  scones.  How  jolly,"  he  said,  sitting 
down  and  attacking  them  afresh. 

There  wasn't  really  much  fear  of  Father  Macdonald 


94  Conquest 

keeping  him  in  after  hours  even  if  he  missed  all  the 
lessons.  Once  in  an  age,  perhaps.  How  could  they  go 
on  talking  about  the  funeral  with  even  the  possibility  of 
being  kept  in  in  front  of  him — to-day,  of  all  days. 

"I'm  off,  mother;  I  couldn't  eat  another  scone,"  he 
said,  jumping  up. 

"He  has  left  you  none,  father,"  she  said  ruefully. 

"It's  the  making  of  a  boy  to  have  a  good  appetite," 
Pierce  said  gleefully.  "Sure  the  loaf  bread  is  the  safest 
for  an  old  man.  And  be  sure  to  be  back  at  four,  Jim 
avick." 

"Oh,  that  old  cake,"  Jim  said  from  the  door.  "I 
don't  bother  about  that  now.  But  not  one  iota  of  a 
minute  later  than  four  for  tea,  mother.  I've  to  be  at 
Tullyfin  by  five  at  the  latest,  and  'twill  take  Crabbit  half 
an  hour  from  here." 

"What  new  madness  is  this?"  his  mother  said, 
bewildered. 

"The  soundest  of  sound  sense,"  his  grandfather  said 
admiringly.  "It's  the  fish  is  running  in  the  boy's  head, 
and  it's  there  he'll  get  'em,  if  they're  to  be  got  at  all,  on 
a  day  like  this." 

But  Jim  had  not  waited  for  either  verdict.  After 
another  look  at  the  rod,  he  picked  up  his  cap  and  satchel 
in  the  hall,  made  sure  that  his  luncheon  was  packed,  but 
resisted  a  temptation  to  see  what  was  the  surprise.  He 
had  a  moment's  remorse  in  the  stable  on  finding  Crabbit 
not  only  fed — his  grandfather  always  did  that — but 
rubbed  down  and  ready  for  the  road,  impatiently  champ- 
ing a  newly-polished  bit.  This  gave  him  a  spare  half- 
hour.  He  opened  his  satchel,  hesitated  between  the 
Nepos  and  Quentin  Durward.  He  chose  the  novel,  and 
was  so  thrilled  by  the  reception  of  the  herald  that, 
though  he  galloped,  he  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late  by 
Burdett  the  watchmaker's  clock  as  he  entered  Lisgeela. 


Conquest  95 

By  Crabbit's  doing  his  very  best  through  the  Lisgeela 
streets,  and  the  luck  of  finding  Looney  himself  lounging 
under  the  sign-board,  "Patrick  Looney.  Entertainment 
for  man  and  beast,"  he  was  only  seven  minutes  late  as  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  one  small  room  of  Father  Mac- 
donald's  house,  known  as  St.  Stanislaus  College.  Father 
Macdonald  raised  his  eyes  for  a  moment  from  the  damp 
page  of  the  Lisgeela  Weekly  Fulminator — which,  on  Fri- 
day, contradicted  flatly  all  the  opinions  and  most  of  the 
news  of  the  rival  Thursday  Weekly  News — suspended  the 
operations  of  his  gold  tortoiseshell  toothpick,  said:  "Late 
again,  Mr.  Daly,"  yawned  and  gave  his  attention  to  the 
street  which  his  desk  overlooked.  A  dozen  or  so  of  cu- 
rious pairs  of  eyes  watched  Jim  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the 
first  of  the  two  battered  desks  that  ran  along  the  back  of 
the  room.  He  took  out  his  books  with  a  contented  sigh 
— it  was  always  a  favourable  sign  when  Father  Mac. 
began  the  day  with  a  newspaper  instead  of  Latin  Gram- 
mar— opened  his  Nepos  and  Smith's  Smaller  Latin- 
English  Dictionary. 

"Have  you  a  sixpence?"  he  whispered  sibilantly  to 
Dick  Kavanagh. 

"I  have." 

A  half-crown  and  a  sixpence  were  exchanged. 

Jim  looked  up  a  word  in  the  dictionary.  "Come  to 
Andrews'  at  playtime  and  have  a  threepenny  ice,"  he 
said. 

"I  will  then,"  Dick  Kavanagh  said,  licking  his  lips, 
adding  half  admiringly,  half  enviously :"  I  suppose  you're 
very  flush  of  the  coin?" 

"That  sixpence  is  all  I  have." 

"Tell  that  to  the  marines,"  Dick  said,  with  an  incredu- 
lous face,  "and  the  whole  world  knowing  ye  found  a  gold 
mine  in  the  back  garden  and  put  it  in  the  bank." 

"Rot,"  Jim  said,  with  all  the  importance  of  exact 


96  Conquest 

knowledge,  looking  up  the  same  word  again.  What  was 
the  use  of  giving  three  or  four  meanings  to  a  word  when 
one  never  knew  which  to  choose?  With  his  fingers  still 
marking  the  page  in  the  dictionary,  he  relented  and  gave 
Dick  Kavanagh  a  full  account  of  the  treasure  hunt. 

"And  you  didn't  bag  a  fistful?"  Dick  said  contemp- 
tuously. 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  Jim  said  half  regretfully, 
"and " 

"Oh,  you're  only  an  old  mollycoddle  after  all,  Jim 
Daly.  Sure  I  thought  you  had  some  spunk  in  you. 
Afraid  of  Father  Lysaght,  no  doubt?" 

Jim  fired  up  and  said  with  cold  fury,  "I'll  blacken  your 
two  eyes  for  that,  Dick  Kavanagh,  the  minute  we  get 
out." 

"Silence,  gentlemen,"  Father  Macdonald,  disturbed  in 
his  reading  of  an  unusually  strong  libel  even  for  The 
Fulminator,  muttered  pettishly,  without  looking  up. 

Jim  scowled  at  the  dictionary,  took  out  his  penknife, 
and  having  found  with  difficulty  on  his  portion  of  the 
desk  a  clear  space  not  already  marked  with  his  name, 
began  to  cut  vigorously. 

"I  was  only  joking,"  Dick  Kavanagh  cringed.  "Sure 
everyone  knows  you  have  courage  in  you  for  anything, 
let  alone  a  trifle  like  that.  And  it's  not  going  back  on  the 
ice  you'd  be?" 

Jim  considered  gravely  this  new  aspect  of  the  case  and 
said  magnanimously:  "Well,  of  course,  if  you're  sorry. 
But  I  haven't  told  you  about  my  new  rod." 

The  discussion  swayed  pleasantly  over  the  whole  field 
of  wet  and  dry  fly  fishing,  ground  bait,  the  possibility  of 
greenheart  in  a  fifteen-shilling  rod,  till  Father  Mac- 
donald, with  a  yawn  that  threatened  for  a  few  delirious 
moments  to  leave  his  jaws  permanently  wide  apart,  said: 

"In  five  minutes  I'll  take  the  first  Latin  class,"  ex- 


Conquest  97 

panded  his  chest,  blew  a  long  breath  from  bulged  cheeks, 
got  up  impatiently  and,  his  hands  in  his  soutane  pockets, 
lounged  in  front  of  the  window  by  his  desk,  with  an 
abstracted  gaze  at  the  street. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ? "  Jim  said  with  a  doubtful  look 
at  the  Nepos. 

"He  might,"  Dick  Kavanagh  said  moodily. 

Father  Macdonald  said:  "Ah,"  and  hurried  out  of  the 
room,  making  a  vain  attempt  to  cover  his  pleasure  with  a 
heavy  frown. 

Dick  Kavanagh  vaulted  over  the  front  desk,  rushed  to 
the  window,  and  peered  out. 

"Down  books,  boys,  for  the  day.  It's  the  Miss 
Curleys  going  to  the  sea,"  he  rhymed  excitedly. 
"They're  talking  to  him.  But  sure  they  have  him 
persuaded  beforehand  ? — see  it  in  his  eye.  He's  saying  he 
will.  They're  coming  in  to  wait  for  him  in  the  sitting- 
room."  And  after  a  few  minutes:  "There,  what  did  I 
tell  you?  I  hear  him  in  his  bedroom,  changing  out  of  his 
soutane." 

Dick  had  barely  got  back  to  his  seat  when  Father  Mac- 
donald came  in,  fastening  a  stud  in  a  clean,  white  cuff,  too 
wide  for  the  sleeve  of  his  coat.  Having  succeeded  in  ad- 
justing the  cuff  to  the  sleeve  he  stood  gravely  at  his  desk, 
rubbed  his  closed  lips  with  the  middle  finger  of  his  right 
hand,  sighed,  rested  both  his  hands  on  the  desk,  gazed  at 
them  for  a  moment,  and  said: 

"Gentlemen,  we  are  accustomed  in  St.  Stanislaus  Col- 
lege to  pay  some  token  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  the 
deceased  clergy  of  the  diocese.  As  to-morrow  is  a  free 
day  in  any  case,  I  feel  that  I  cannot  do  better  than  give 
you  the  remainder  of  to-day  in  honour  of  such  a  revered 
and  venerated  priest  as  Father  Pat  Daly." 

"Hurrah,"  Dick  Kavanagh  shouted,  waving  Jim's 
dictionary. 


98  Conquest 

"It's  not  an  occasion  for  levity,"  Father  Macdonald 
said  with  a  frown. 

Jim  felt  that  his  Uncle  Pat  was  not  such  a  bad  fellow 
after  all,  and  hurried  to  Looney's  with  Dick  Kavanagh 
talking  incessantly  in  his  wake.  No  ices  were  to  be  had 
at  Andrews'  till  one  o'clock,  but  sixpence  worth  of  choco- 
late at  Mallon's  went  a  long  way  between  two,  and  a  slab 
of  it  in  a  man's  pocket  was  a  generous  thing  against 
starvation  and  he  out  fishing.  And  he'd  go  in  for  it,  if 
Jim  was  uneasy  about  leaving  the  pony.  Not  that  he 
was  ever  backward  in  spending  his  own  money,  but  he 
couldn't  break  in  on  the  half-crown  which  was  as  good 
as  mortgaged  in  his  mind  for  an  ass  that  he  was  saving  up 
for. 

"An  ass,"  Jim  said  pityingly,  stroking  Crabbit's 
quarter. 

"Oh,  but  he's  a  prize  ass,"  Kavanagh  said  eagerly. 
"And  likely  to  win  in  the  Lisgeela  sports  in  August,  and 
maybe  far  and  wide,"  embracing  the  universe  in  an  elo- 
quent gesture. 

Jim  admitted  the  difference  readily  and  discussed  age, 
height,  speed,  and  weight-carrying  capacity.  An  invita- 
tion from  Dick  to  view  the  ass,  "my  own  ass  I  might  say, 
and  me  only  seven  shillings  off  him,"  was  hard  to  resist, 
but  the  rod,  not  having  yet  been  used,  was  still  more 
attractive.  A  proposal  to  go  shares  in  the  ass  to  the 
extent  of  seven  shillings  found  favour  at  first,  but  the 
difficulty  of  putting  together  seven  shillings  seemed  an 
insurmountable  bar.  Dick  pooh-poohed  this,  claiming, 
as  the  son  of  a  solicitor,  to  know  everything.  Any  man 
with  the  name  of  money  could  draw  money  out  of  a  bank. 
Jim  knew  all  about  cheques,  of  course,  but  no  cheque 
that  was  ever  written  could  draw  Father  Pat's  money 
from  behind  the  big  iron  door  Mr.  Murphy  clanged  on  it. 
Dick  said  the  word  had  only  to  be  said  and  his  father'd 


Conquest  99 

have  the  law  of  Mr.  Murphy  for  it.  Jim  thought  Mr. 
Murphy  much  too  nice  and  quiet  to  have  the  law  of,  but 
Father  Lysaght  would  know.  Dick  begged,  for  the  love 
of  heaven,  to  keep  the  ass  dark  from  Father  Lysaght — it 
wasn't  as  if  the  ass  was  what  you  could  swear  to  as  a  prize 
ass,  he  never  having  actually  won  a  prize,  only  he  had  the 
cut  of  an  ass  that  might  easily  win  one  if  he  only  got  the 
chance.  And  as  Jim  hadn't  the  money  in  his  pockets 
and,  so  to  speak,  at  liberty,  it  might  be  as  well  to  let  the 
whole  thing,  ass  and  all,  drop,  for  fear  worse'd  come  from 
Father  Lysaght  hearing  about  it,  and,  maybe,  his 
father. 

The  chocolate  having  been  bought  and  divided  fairly, 
Jim  set  out  for  home.  If  only  he  had  brought  the  rod 
with  him  he  could  save  a  mile  by  going  direct  to  Tullyfin 
by  the  Lisheen  road.  Providence  had  given  him  the 
whole  day  for  fishing  in  the  glen.  Yet  his  mother  seemed 
sometimes  to  have  a  strange  disregard  for  Providence. 
And  to-day's  gift  was  unduly  complicated.  The  obvious 
intention  of  Providence  was  that  he  should  get  his  rod, 
ride  straight  to  the  glen,  run  the  chance — which  was  no 
chance  at  all  but  a  dead  certainty — of  getting  a  meal  or 
meals  at  the  Driscolls',  spend  the  whole  enchanted  day  in 
filling  his  basket  with  fish,  and  be  home  just  in  time  for 
supper.  He  had  a  momentary  thought  of  helping  Prov- 
idence in  its  intention  by  slipping  in  quietly  to  the 
cottage,  securing  the  rod  and  slipping  out  again  without 
a  word  said  and  no  one  the  wiser.  But  Crabbit's  steady 
trot  hammered  a  sustained  objection  to  this.  It  wasn't 
so  much  that  it  couldn't  be  done  that  moved  him,  for 
difficulty  was  only  another  attraction,  but  the  memory 
of  a  look  in  his  mother's  eyes  when  she  looked  down  her 
nose  at  him.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  face  all  the 
risks — only  his  mother  must  give  way  about  dinner.  It 
was  simply  impossible  to  waste  one's  time  at  Scarty 


ioo  Conquest 


waiting  for  dinner  till  half -past  one — he  was  determined 
on  that. 

A  spirited  argument  ended  in  a  compromise.  His 
mother  made  no  difficulty  about  dinner,  but  she  insisted 
on  tea — she'd  put  it  off  till  five  or  half-past,  but  he  must 
be  back.  When  he  realized  that  the  birthday  cake  was 
really  a  treat  for  his  grandfather  he  gave  in  at  once.  A 
grandfather  who  never  forgot  anything,  who  had  actually 
unscrewed  and  packed  the  rod  "so  that  there'd  be  no 
delay  on  the  boy,"  who  had  fitted  a  shoulder  strap  on 
the  case  and  provided  a  new  landing  net,  was  one  to  be 
considered  and  coddled. 

At  half-past  twelve  Jim,  dismounted,  the  reins  in  his 
hand,  was  undoing  the  hasp  of  the  gate  opening  on  the 
bawn  of  his  granduncle  Teige's  house. 

"It's  Jim  Daly  that's  in  it  as  sure  as  I'm  alive,"  a 
flushed-stoutish,  brown-eyed  woman  shrieked  from  the 
door  of  the  long,  low  thatched  farm-house. 

"It  is,  Mrs.  Con,"  Jim  said,  with  a  timid  obviousness. 

"Well,  now,  if  that  isn't  the  luck  of  the  world,"  she 
said,  wiping  her  hands  in  her  rough  brown  apron  and 
pulling  down  her  turned-up  sleeves,  a  little  girl  hanging 
on  to  her  skirt.  "Sure  it's  you  that  can  tell  us  all  about 
it.  Con  brought  the  news  home  from  the  market,  but  it 
was  that  sketchy  that  there  was  no  satisfaction  in  it.  It's 
the  great  man  entirely  you're  going  to  be,  I'm  told — it's 
making  a  priest  of  you  they'll  be,  or  something  grand 
like  that,  or  turning  you  into  quality  like  your  mother." 

"I  hope  Uncle  Teige  will  let  me  have  a  day's  fishing," 
Jim  said,  bewildered. 

"Sure  he  will  and  a  hundred  of  'em.  I'm  blessed  if  it 
isn't  the  quality  breaking  out  in  him  already,"  she 
laughed  good-humouredly,  as  she  wrung  his  hand.  "Is 
it  afeard  of  your  own  cousin  you  are,  Betsy?  It  isn't 
kind  mother  for  her  to  be  shy,  but  you  never  know  how 


Conquest  i.oi 

children'll  turn  out.  Run  away  then,  agra,  and  call  in 
your  father  to  his  dinner.  If  it  was  them  other  thieves  of 
the  world,  Mike  and  Sarah  Anne  was  in  it,  it's  lepping 
about  you  they'd  be,  but  it's  in  school  they  are,  thank 
God,  if  they  aren't  mitching.  Tie  the  pony  to  the  latch 
o'  the  door  and  Con'll  take  him  round.  Your  grand- 
uncle  is  within.  In  with  you,  now.  And  wasn't  it 
lucky,  Mike  laid  a  cross  line  last  night,  though  his  father 
is  agin  it,  so  it's  a  salmon  we  have  for  the  dinner.  Sure 
it's  God  always  provides  for  the  Friday.  Father-in-law 
here's  your  sister's  grandson  coming  to  see  you,"  she 
shouted,  slapping  Crabbit  away  from  the  door,  and  push- 
ing Jim  into  the  kitchen  in  front  of  her. 

"It's  not  as  deaf  as  all  that  I  am,  woman,"  Teige  Dris- 
coll  quavered  through  toothless  gums.  "Didn't  I  hear 
you  telling  it  to  the  whole  barony  out  on  the  bawn  there. 
I'm  two  years  older  than  the  man  that's  dead,  but  it's 
the  full  use  of  all  my  senses  I  have  yet,  thanks  be  to  God. 
But  sure  it's  heartily  welcome  any  one  of  your  name  is  to 
this  house,  Jim  Daly,"  he  added,  with  grave  courtesy, 
taking  the  boy's  hand. 

"Shout  up  to  him,  Jim,  boy,  sure  it's  deaf  as  a  post  he 
is,"  Mrs.  Con  said  placidly,  preparing  another  place  at 
the  table  already  laid  for  a  meal  in  the  right-hand  corner 
of  the  kitchen,  between  the  settle  and  the  open  hearth. 

"  My  mother  and  grandfather  sent  you  their  love,"  Jim 
shouted. 

"Think  o'  that  now,"  the  old  man  said,  his  hand  to  his 
ear.  ' '  And  she  a  Levin  and  all  that,  and  she  once  a  black 
Protestant.  It's  many  a  raking  I  gave  her  father  and  his 
father  before  him  on  a  platform  and  the  like.  And  it's 
Pierce  Daly  is  the  decent  man.  Sorra  better  Irishman 
there  is  in  the  whole  country,  though  he  married  my  own 
sister.  I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  for  the  man  that's 
dead.  It's  a  good  priest  he  was,  I'm  told,  and  that  might 


102  Conquest 

get  him  past  Saint  Peter,  but  it's  little  help  he'll  have  in 
getting  to  heaven  from  all  he  ever  done  for  his  country." 

"  It's  too  much  speechifying  is  running  in  this  family," 
Mrs.  Con  shouted,  as  she  lifted  half  a  salmon  from  a  big 
pot  on  the  hearth. 

"Maybe  it's  a  salt  herring  or  only  an  egg  itself  you'd 
be  having  for  your  dinner  this  day  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
speeches,  and  not  a  fine  salmon  like  that,"  he  said 
triumphantly. 

"Hear  him  now,  and  it  Mike  the  ruffian  with  a  cross- 
line,"  she  said  with  a  shrug.  "What  did  a  speech  ever 
get  for  a  man  but  jail  or  to  be  thrown  out  of  house  and 
home?" 

"  At  it  again,  Sally.  Sure  it's  a  fine  hand  you  are  at  the 
speeches  yourself,  God  bless  you.  It's  jealous  she  is, 
father,  at  not  seeing  the  inside  of  a  jail  herself,"  Con  Dris- 
coll  said  pleasantly  from  the  doorway. 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up  and  looked  at  his  son 
admiringly.  Both  men  were  clad  alike  in  frieze,  white 
flannel  bawneens,  and  white  linen  shirts  open  at  the  neck. 
The  red  hair,  firm  jaw  and  mouth,  the  stocky  but  wiry 
figure  of  the  son  could  all  be  traced  in  the  father.  Lack  of 
teeth  made  the  old  man's  jaws  sharper  and  compressed 
his  lips,  and  years  had  slightly  bent  his  shoulders,  but  his 
blue  eyes  were  as  bright  and  clear  as  his  son's. 

"  A  woman  is  too  weak  a  vessel  for  such  a  high  level  of 
honour  as  the  jail,  with  the  treadmill  and  the  oakum 
picking  and  the  skilly  we  had  in  my  time,"  Teige  said 
proudly. 

"Don't  be  frightening  young  Jim  off  it  before  his  time 
comes,"  the  son  said  with  a  laugh.  "  It's  fine  metal  he'll 
be  for  any  league  that's  in  it  in  a  few  years'  time.  And 
the  cause'll  be  none  the  worse  for  the  cartful  of  sovereigns 
I'm  told  Father  Pat  left.  Though  it's  little  honour  there 
is  in  the  jail  now  compared  with  my  father's  time,  with 


Conquest  103 

your  own  clothes  and  the  best  of  eating  and  drinking  from 
outside.  It's  some  dirty  trick  of  the  English  to  try  and 
cure  us  of  the  jail  by  making  it  pleasant  for  us." 

"Yerra,  give  the  boy  some  peace  from  the  English," 
Mrs.  Con  said,  half  emptying  a  pot  of  new  potatoes  into  a 
large  wooden  bowl.  "  As  if  he  hadn't  enough  of  that  with 
Pierce  Daly.  It's  a  trout  the  boy  wants  to  kill  and  not 
the  English." 

"When  I  grow  up  I'll  fight  the  English,"  Jim  said 
calmly. 

"You  wouldn't  lay  hooks  for  a  salmon,  Jim;  it's  to 
fight  the  English  clean  you  will,"  Con  said,  with  a  wry 
look  at  the  fish. 

Jim  blushed .     "I  only  fish  for  trout ,"  he  said  evasively. 

"Let  ye  all  sit  down,"  Mrs.  Con  said  good-humouredly. 
"What  if  the  fish  was  poached  itself — sorra  one'd  know 
it  from  the  taste.  I  never  met  such  a  man.  He'd  melia- 
murder  the  English — in  his  talk  anyway — and  he  goes 
into  the  tantrums  if  an  innocent  boy  lays  a  crossline  for  a 
Friday  dinner." 

"Women  is  women,"  Con  shouted  despairingly  to  his 
father. 

"They  are,  the  poor  things,"  his  father  said  with  a 
commiserating  nod. 

"You  can't  be  with  your  father  for  one  minute,  Betsy, 
without  dirtying  your  pinny,"  Mrs.  Con  said  by  way  of 
retort.  "Run  away  into  the  room  at  once  and  put  on  a 
clean  bib.  But  sure  the  men  are  all  alike.  Take  some 
butter,  Jim,  with  the  new  potatoes — they're  like  to  hang 
heavy  on  the  stomach  without  it.  It's  to  save  Con  a 
journey  you  did  by  coming  in  on  us  to-day.  It'd  ill  befit  a 
Driscoll  not  to  be  at  the  funeral  of  any  one  of  the  Dalys — 
though  it's  a  distant  man  Father  Pat  was  in  his  ways — 
and  Con  was  going  to  ride  into  Lisgeela  to  find  out  about 
the  funeral,  though  he  has  a  cow  going  to  calf  on  him  and 


104  Conquest 

a  field  of  hay  in  windrows  and  only  God  above  knowing 
when  the  weather  mightn't  break.  But  sure  you'll  be 
able  to  tell  us  that  and  more  besides — the  whole  ins  and 
outs  of  the  will  and  everything.  Betsy 'd  be  a  better 
warrant  to  bring  home  the  rights  of  a  story  than  Con 
there,  and  it  happening,  as  you  might  say,  under  his  eyes 
within  in  the  market.  A  hundred  questions  I  put  to  him 
if  I  asked  him  one,  and  only  got  back  for  my  pains  'The 
man  died  sudden,  I  tell  you,  and  Jim's  got  the  money,' 
just  as  if  he  hadn't  a  tongue  on  him  nor  an  eye  nor  an  ear 
in  his  head." 

"It's  paralysis  of  the  tongue  she'll  be  getting  next," 
Con  said  with  a  resigned  shrug. 

"  Eh,  what  ? "  the  old  man  said  with  his  hand  to  his  ear. 
"  You're  right,  Con.  The  dead  man  was  no  Nationalist. 
Never  paid  a  penny  to  a  league  nor  stood  on  a  platform 
in  his  life,  and  when  Parnell  himself  was  at  a  meeting 
near  Drisheen,  sorra  outside  his  door  Father  Pat'd  step 
to  bid  him  the  time  of  day.  Looking  down  on  him  to-day 
in  heaven  Parnell  is  for  it  I've  no  doubt." 

Mrs.  Con  looked  doubtful.  "  It's  a  great  man  entirely 
Parnell  was,  surely,"  she  shouted.  "But  as  for  him 
being  up  in  heaven  now,  and  he  a  Protestant  and  no 
better  than  he  should  be,  so  they  say,  I  wouldn't  put  him 
past  purgatory  myself." 

"It's  high  among  the  saints  of  God  he  is,"  the  old  man 
said  sternly.  "  Didn't  he  die  a  martyr,  or  as  good  as  one, 
the  way  Gladstone  and  the  English  harried  him  from 
pillar  to  post;  and  don't  the  catechism  itself  say  that  the 
blood  of  a  martyr  blots  out  every  sin?  Every  man  that 
died  for  his  country,  be  he  a  Turk  or  an  atheist,  let  alone 
a  Protestant,  gets  a  high  place  in  heaven.  Wolfe  Tone 
and  Robert  Emmett  and  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald, 
though  they  were  Protestants  itself,  are  wearing  crowns 
as  bright  as  St.  Patrick  himself.  The  Pope  may  deny 


Conquest  105 

it  to  them — may  God  forgive  him  for  being  in  the 
pay  of  the  English — but  sure  God  knows  better,  and  the 
people  know  better,  being  one  and  the  same,  for  doesn't 
the  whole  world  know  that  the  voice  of  the  people  is  the 
voice  of  God?" 

"  It's  your  father  is  the  great  theologian,  Con,  may  God 
bless  him,"  Mrs.  Con  said  admiringly.  "He  has  a  better 
grip  of  it  than  any  priest  I  ever  heard.  And  sure  it's  not 
for  the  likes  of  me  to  meddle  in  high  matters  of  the  kind. 
Have  another  taste  of  the  salmon,  Jim,  and  tell  us  all 
about  Father  Pat." 

Jim,  at  the  start,  was  almost  as  unresponsive  as  her 
husband,  but  he  yielded  more  to  a  detailed  questioning. 
Happily  Con  remembered  the  cow  at  about  a  quarter  to 
two,  and  broke  short  Mrs.  Con's  fiftieth  eager  question 
about  the  biscuit  tins  which  had  moved  her  to  deep  emo- 
tion. Jim  got  up  from  the  table  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
He  had  enjoyed  the  attentive  audience,  but  there  had 
been  moments  when  tears  were  near  his  eyes  at  the 
thought  of  all  the  fish  he  was  missing.  Con  examined 
the  tackle  with  minute  care,  fixed  the  rod,  tied  on  a  new 
fly  and  presented  Jim  with  half  a  dozen,  "never  known  to 
fail."  "If  it  wasn't  for  the  cow  and  the  hay  I'd  go 
with  you  myself,"  he  said  regretfully.  "The  sky  is 
clouding  up  a  little  and  you  may  have  a  rise  or  two. 
And  as  you've  to  be  back  home  at  half-past  five,  you  say, 
I'll  send  Mike  down  to  the  bridge  at  Grange  Con  to  meet 
you  with  the  pony." 

Jim  whipped  the  willow  pool  up  and  down  without 
getting  a  rise.  He  saw  several  fish,  deep  down,  almost 
motionless,  or  moving  lazily,  but  could  not  tempt  them  to 
the  surface,  though  he  tried  fly  after  fly.  Excitement 
lapsed  into  boredom.  His  right  arm  was  tired  and  he 
felt  the  heat  intensely.  He  picked  out  the  notes  of  the 
different  birds  and  was  tempted  to  put  down  his  rod  and 


106  Conquest 

look  for  nests.  The  buzzing  of  insects  and  a  faint,  dis- 
tant gurgle  of  water  lulled  his  senses  till  he  almost  slept 
standing.  The  top  of  his  rod  touched  the  water  several 
times.  But  each  time  he  braced  himself,  determined  to 
stick  it  out.  He  remembered  the  luncheon  which  he  had 
transferred  from  his  satchel  to  the  fish  basket,  decided 
to  try  another  fly,  and  opened  the  luncheon  packet  in  the 
process — one  bread-and-butter  sandwich,  two  jam  sand- 
wiches, a  hard-boiled  egg,  and  a  slab  of  butterscotch. 
Susan  was  a  brick.  He  kept  the  sweet  for  last  and  rolled 
the  rectangular  slab,  whole,  round  and  round  in  his  mouth 
appreciatively  as  he  tried  another  cast.  He  crunched 
the  sweet  as  he  heard  voices  approach  down  the  glen  on 
the  opposite  bank.  Round  a  willow  came  two  men,  one 
in  waders,  followed  by  a  man  carrying  two  salmon  rods 
and  a  landing  net.  He  recognized  the  man  with  the  long, 
bushy  beard  as  Blake,  Scovell's  water  bailiff,  a  famous 
fisherman.  He  mustn't  be  caught  lagging.  He  swallowed 
the  sweet  quickly  and  gave  all  his  attention  to  his  cast. 

"The  rottenest  day  I've  ever  had — to  come  home 
without  a  fish,"  came  down  the  river.  That  was  Scovell 
himself.  He  gave  them  a  rapid  glance.  And  the  other 
was  Red  Drumbeg,  one  of  his  cousins  who  wasn't  a 
cousin — a  freak  who  was  no  good  for  man  or  woman  or 
God  or  King  or  country,  his  grandfather  said.  He  blushed 
a  little  and  stiffened. 

"That's  the  youngest  of  the  brood  of  vipers,"  Scovell 
said,  with  a  shrug. 

"  What?    That  boy?"  Drumbeg  lisped. 

"Pierce  Daly's  grandson,"  Scovell  said. 

"But  he's  fishing  your  water,"  Drumbeg  said 
indignantly. 

Jim  turned  his  head  and  stared  at  them  with  level, 
steady  blue  eyes.  He  lengthened  his  line  and  the  fly  fell 
within  a  foot  of  the  opposite  bank. 


Conquest  107 

"The  impudent  young  beggar,"  Drumbeg  said 
angrily. 

Scovell  laughed.  "He's  game  enough,  anyway,"  he 
said  ruefully.  "It  is  my  water,  I  suppose,"  he  added 
without  lowering  his  voice  as  they  moved  off.  "At  least 
it  used  to  be,  but  one  never  knows  where  one  stands  these 
days.  His  grandfather's  people-in-law,  the  Driscolls, 
are  my  tenants  along  that  bank,  and  they  claim  the  fish- 
ing— they  even  warned  me  off  it  a  couple  of  years  ago. 
It  was  too  much  trouble  to  test  the  matter  so  I  let  'em 
have  it." 

Their  voices  floated  back  for  a  while  against  the  silence 
of  the  glen  in  mutual  recrimination  on  landlords'  rights, 
and  on  letting  the  country  go  to  the  dogs  in  not  keeping 
tenants  well  under.  With  the  voices,  Jim's  ardour  for 
fishing  died.  If  Blake,  who  knew  the  wiles  of  fish  and  the 
Owneybeg  in  all  her  moods,  had  failed,  it  was  simply  all 
up.  He  fished  down  towards  Grange  Con  bridge,  but 
with  a  lack  of  interest  that  allowed  frequent  searches 
for  wild  strawberries  on  the  grassy  ridge  running  almost 
parallel  to  the  river  but  fifty  yards  back.  It  could  not  be 
much  after  four,  he  guessed  by  the  sun,  when  he  got  to 
the  bridge.  Sitting  on  the  parapet,  on  the  Lisgeela  side, 
he  dawdled  over  his  fly-book,  unfastened  several  flies 
from  his  cap  and  put  them  in  the  book.  He  chased  a 
butterfly,  wished  he  had  brought  Quentin  Durward, 
packed  his  rod,  debated  whether  he'd  go  back  to  Dris- 
coll's  for  Crabbit  or  wait  for  Mike.  He  sat  on  the  para- 
pet again,  let  himself  down  to  a  ledge  from  which  the  low 
arch  sprang,  tried  to  touch  the  water  with  his  boot, 
holding  on  the  ledge  with  his  elbows,  failed,  but  succeeded 
in  regaining  the  parapet  after  slipping  twice  back  on  to 
the  ledge.  He  traced  the  river  far  below  Lisgeela  by 
the  glint  of  silver  on  the  water.  Scarty  was  hidden  away 
somewhere  at  the  foot  of  the  upland,  but  that  was  the 


io8  Conquest 


Dalyhouse  demesne  stretching  away  in  front  and  to  the 
right,  though  he  couldn't  see  the  house.  And  there  was 
a  woman  fishing  down  on  the  Dalyhouse  side.  How  fool- 
ish of  her  on  such  a  bright  afternoon.  The  little  girl  by 
her  side,  chasing  butterflies  with  the  landing  net,  had 
more  sense.  A  man  with  a  peaked  beard  rode  up  on 
a  bicycle.  It  was  Mr.  Lentaigne  of  Derrylim — a  land- 
lord, but  one  of  the  best  of  a  bad  lot,  grandfather  Daly 
had  said  one  day  after  an  argument  with  him  in  the  Lis- 
geela  Post  Office.  And  always  afterwards  Mr.  Len- 
taigne had  nodded  and  smiled  at  Jim  when  they  passed 
one  another  in  Lisgeela.  But  to-day  he  seemed  to  look 
through  him  without  a  trace  of  his  funny  smile;  with  a 
sort  of  glazed,  searching  look  that  seemed  to  wander 
down  the  river.  He  made  an  exclamation  as  he  passed, 
and  Jim  turned  towards  him  thinking  that  he  had  spoken 
to  him.  But  Lentaigne,  taking  no  notice  of  him,  jumped 
off  his  bicycle,  half  threw  it  against  the  side  of  the  bridge, 
jumped  the  low  wall  at  the  side  and  walked  rapidly  down 
the  river  bank  towards  the  woman  and  child.  Jim  was 
interested  in  Lentaigne's  shadow.  He  thought  of  giants 
and  seven-leagued  boots.  If  Lentaigne  were  Quentin 
Durward  he'd  be  engaged  in  some  adventure.  Perhaps 
he  was.  There  was  the  lady,  but  there  were  no  ruffian 
soldiery  about.  In  ambush,  perhaps.  He  jumped  off 
the  parapet  and  his  eye  caught  the  bicycle.  A  bicycle 
was  one  of  his  dreams.  He  examined  it  closely — a 
sprightly,  American  machine  with  yellow  wooden  rims 
and  a  perky  little  saddle,  and  geared  to  seventy-two. 
He  stood  back  a  little  and  looked  at  it  scornfully.  It  was 
too  flimsy — his  own,  with  a  deep  sigh,  if  he  ever  got  one, 
would  be  a  Humber.  What  was  keeping  that  lazy  Mike? 
But  it  wasn't  nearly  five  yet.  He  sat  again  on  the  para- 
pet. Did  anybody  ever  pass  over  the  Grange  Con 
bridge?  He  was  like  Alexander  Selkirk  in  Juan  Fern- 


Conquest  109 

andez — and  there  were  the  savages  coming  nearer.  It 
was  the  little  Scovell  girl — Diana  they  called  her.  They 
must  be  acting  a  play.  It  was  very  like  the  play  he  had 
seen  in  the  town  hall  at  Lisgeela.  Little  Diana  had  the 
rod  now — it  was  too  funny  how  she  held  it,  just  as  if 
she  were  bait  fishing.  But  little  girls  were  like  that — they 
knew  nothing  about  anything.  And  she  looked  as 
important  as  if  she  could  catch  a  fish.  She  was  just  a 
doll — a  rather  nice  doll.  But  it  was  Mr.  Lentaigne  and 
the  lady  who  looked  most  like  the  people  in  the  play. 
There  they  were,  away  back  from  the  river,  under  the 
shade  of  the  old  elm,  just  like  the  tree  on  the  stage,  with 
patches  of  light  quivering  on  the  grass.  And  the  lady 
was  standing  quite  still,  her  hands  by  her  side,  her  head 
bent  a  little  to  hide  her  blushes,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  sunlight  at  Mr.  Lentaigne's  feet.  He  was  looking 
at  her  with  the  very  eyes  of  the  man  in  the  play,  and  talk- 
ing quickly  too,  his  beard  making  little  funny  movements, 
his  hands  restless.  It  would  soon  be  time  for  her  to  look 
up;  but  he  had  to  take  her  hand  first.  There — he  had 
taken  it.  Now — yes,  there  she  was,  looking  up  at  him 
with  that  sort  of  look  in  her  eyes  that  one  didn't  know 
whether  she  was  going  to  cry  or  laugh.  And  now  he'd 
put  his  arm  out  and  she'd  fall  on  to  it,  but  with  her  head 
turned  so  that  he  could  kiss  her.  There — but  they  did  it 
far  better  in  the  play.  And  now  his  godmother  would  die 
and  leave  him  a  fortune,  and  her  father  would  relent,  and 
they  would  be  married  and  live  happy  ever  after.  And 
there  they  were  off  now,  wandering  down  by  the  river, 
just  as  if  she  had  no  rod  to  look  after,  and  he  no  bicycle 
lying  on  the  side  of  the  road  for  any  one  to  run  off  with — 
but  they  were  always  like  that. 

Jim  watched  them  disappear  with  a  look  of  tolerant 
contempt  which  deepened  to  disgust  as  his  eyes  fell 
again  on  Diana.  She  was  now  sitting  on  the  bank,  the 


no  Conquest 

rod  held  under  her  arm,  its  top  bobbing  in  the  water, 
while,  with  both  hands,  she  was  making  a  daisy  chain. 
Making  daisy  chains  was  all  little  girls  were  good  for. 

She  shrieked  and  made  a  grab  at  the  rod. 

"Miss  Fraser,  Miss  Fraser,"  she  called  excitedly, 
looking  round  bewildered. 

"Let  it  run  free — don't  jerk  him,"  Jim  shouted,  as  he 
raced  along  the  top  of  the  parapet. 

' '  The  line  is  all  running  away.  Oh,  boy,  boy, ' '  she  said 
despairingly. 

"Let  it  go  free — run  along  the  bank  with  him." 

He  was  at  her  side  in  a  few  seconds  and  had  firmly 
taken  possession  of  the  rod. 

"I've  caught  a  fish — I've  caught  a  fish,"  she  shouted, 
making  wild  leaps. 

"Maybe — if  you  haven't  lost  him,"  he  said  grimly, 
trying  to  control,  as  befitted  a  man,  excitement  even 
deeper  than  hers. 

"He's  on  it  all  right,"  he  shouted  joyfully,  after  a  few 
seconds'  despair  over  a  slackened  line.  "A  monster  he 
is,  too." 

"  Is  it  a  salmon? "  she  asked  in  an  awed  tone. 

"A  pound-and-a-half  trout  if  he's  an  ounce,"  he  said, 
too  excited  to  be  contemptuous.  "Run  back  for  the 
net." 

She  hung  about  him,  hopping  from  leg  to  leg  and  wav- 
ing the  net  excitedly.  "It's  my  fish — not  your  fish  nor 
Miss  Fraser's.  I  caught  it,"  she  said  determinedly. 

"  It  might  get  off  yet,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  don't  lose  him,"  she  begged.  And  then  with  a 
frown  and  a  stamp  of  her  foot:  "If  he  goes  it's  you  lost 
him,  and  you'll  be  a  horrid  boy." 

He  gave  an  effective  answer  to  this  by  landing  the  trout 
without  the  net  on  a  little  patch  of  sand.  She  swooped 
down  on  the  fish,  held  it  up  in  her  hands  triumphantly. 


Conquest  m 

"Father  didn't  catch  a  fish,  Miss  Fraser  didn't  catch  a 
fish,  Lord  Drumbeg  didn't  catch  a  fish.  Did  you  catch  a 
fish? "  with  a  note  of  doubt  in  the  paean  of  joy. 

"I  didn't,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"Hurrah!  Only  I  caught  a  fish,"  she  chanted,  as  she 
jumped  about  in  a  sort  of  Indian  war  dance. 

"You're  like  the  pink  fairy  in  the  play,"  he  said,  "only 
you  dance  better." 

He  gazed  at  her,  his  mouth  a  little  open. 

The  mischievous  look  in  her  blue  eyes  and  her  mutin- 
ous lips  sobered  down.  She  stood  quite  still  and  stared 
at  him  solemnly.  "I  didn't  quite  altogether  catch  the 
trout — you  helped  me,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  that  was  nothing,"  he  said  loftily.  "I'm  nine — 
this  is  my  birthday." 

The  corners  of  her  lips  drooped  a  little.  "I'd  be 
seven  if  my  birthday  was  now,  but  it  isn't  till  December," 
she  said  doubtfully,  adding  with  more  confidence:  "I've 
a  pony  and  two  canaries  and  a  goldfinch." 

"  I've  a  pony  for  ages  and  ages,  and  five  rabbits  and  a 
trout-rod  of  my  own,"  he  said  half-heartedly,  a  little 
ashamed  of  throwing  such  glories  in  the  face  of  a  girl  who 
was  only  six  and  a  half  really. 

"Your  pony  is  a  common  pony,"  she  said  disdainfully. 
"  I've  seen  him  often.  You're  the  common  little  boy  that 
we  don't  know  that  lives  in  the  cottage  near  our  gate  and 
your  mother  suicided  herself." 

He  flushed  hotly  but  restrained  his  anger.  If  she  were 
a  boy — but  he  couldn't  hit  even  a  boy  of  that  age.  And 
she  was  only  a  girl  and  didn't  know  what  she  was  saying. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  I'm  a  Protestant  and  you're  only  a  Catholic,  like 
the  servants,"  she  said,  making  a  last  dash  for  superiority. 
"They  adore  idols  and  go  to  hell — granny  says  so,"  she 
added  in  explanation. 


ii2  Conquest 

He  laughed  with  a  calm  certainty.  The  whole  world 
knew  that  it  was  Protestants  who  went  to  hell.  The  re- 
tort was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  but  he  checked  himself. 
She  was  too  like  one  of  the  angels  to  go  to  hell — one  of  the 
cross  ones.  She  was  wriggling  a  pink  toe  through  a  hole 
in  her  sandal.  The  sun  caught  a  strand  of  hair  falling 
down  from  under  her  broad  hat  and  turned  it  into  gold. 
The  freckles  on  her  proud  little  nose  were  like  specks  of 
gold  dust.  The  slight  tan  on  her  face  only  made  it  a 
cooler  and  firmer  creamy  pink.  He  had  never  seen  any- 
one so  nice  and  cool.  If  she  weren't  a  Scovell  and  a 
Protestant  and  a  landlord  and  English  she'd  be  fun  to 
play  with. 

He  sighed.  "There's  Mike  above  on  the  bridge;  I 
must  be  going,"  he  said  regretfully. 

"That's  your  pony.  Oh,  do  give  me  a  ride,  won't 
you?"  she  said  eagerly.  "Oh,  bother,"  she  added, 
stamping  her  foot  angrily.  "There's  old  Gray  son  and 
granny  coming  to  fetch  me  and  Miss  Fraser  to  tea  at 
Tullyfin.  And  now  I  can't  have  my  ride."  She  turned 
her  anger  on  Jim.  "And  granny  will  give  it  to  you  hot 
if  she  finds  you  poaching  on  our  land." 

The  unfairness  of  this  staggered  him  a  little.  "I'm 
not  afraid  of  the  old  souper,"  he  said  angrily. 

"What's  a  souper?  She's  not  a  souper — she's  my 
granny,  Lady  Alice  Scovell,"  Diana  said,  divided  between 
curiosity  and  indignation. 

"She  steals  Catholic  babies  and  sends  them  away  to 
Dublin  in  baskets  to  be  brought  up  Protestants,"  Jim 
said,  stalking  away. 

"Oh,  how  nice — and  then  they're  not  on  the  road  to 
hell  any  more,"  Diana  said  in  a  glow  of  excitement  over 
the  attractive  information.  "You're  not  a  very  horrid 
little  boy,  and  you  can  take  the  old  fish  if  you  like,"  she 
called  pleadingly. 


Conquest  113 

He  was  already  climbing  the  slope  to  the  bridge.  This 
was  the  last  straw  and  helped  him  to  set  his  face  in  that 
"proud,  impudent  look,"  which,  Susan  Roche  had  taught 
him  as  a  child,  was  "the  fit  face  for  a  Daly  to  meet  a 
Scovell  with." 

Lady  Alice  Scovell,  however,  saw  no  impudence  in  his 
fearless,  boyish  face  as  he  passed  the  landau.  She 
watched  him  through  her  lorgnette.  "I  know  the  lout 
with  the  pony,"  she  said  to  Miss  Grayson.  "The  son  of 
Driscoll,  one  of  the  worst  ruffians  on  the  Tullyfm  estate. 
But  who  is  the  attractive  child  that  was  speaking  to 
Diana?" 

"He's  the  grandson  of  the  darling  old  patriot,  Pierce 
Daly/'  Miss  Grayson  said  warmly. 

"Fudge,"  the  old  woman  said,  clicking  her  glasses  to. 
"What  a  common-looking  boy!  And  his  mother  was 
once  a  lady.  You  must  be  more  careful  of  your  young 
charge,  Miss  Grayson.  She  mustn't  be  allowed  to  come 
in  contact  with  such  riff-raff.  Sentimentality  is  to  be 
expected  in  an  Englishwoman,  but  to  call  a  murderer — or 
what  is  just  as  bad — a  patriot  is  a  little  too  much.  You'll 
be  giving  them  Home  Rule  next.  And  where's  that  Miss 
Fraser?  To  go  off  and  leave  the  child  alone.  She's  a 
Fraser  of  Ballyowen,  but  since  she's  taken  to  flirting 
with  rebellion  she's  not  to  be  trusted  in  anything." 

"She's  coming  up  the  bank  with  Mr.  Lentaigne," 
Miss  Grayson  said,  glad  to  free  herself  from  attention. 

"Oh,"  Lady  Alice  said,  with  a  grim  smile,  again  fixing 
her  lorgnette.  "Perhaps  Mr.  Lentaigne  is  why  she's  a 
rebel — he's  not  safe  I'm  told." 

"What  sort  of  a  day  had  you,  Jim?"  Mike  Driscoll 
said,  as  he  handed  him  the  reins. 

"A  rotten  day,"  Jim  said,  gruffly,  discharging  some  of 
his  anger  on  the  unoffending  Mike  by  jerking  away  the 
reins. 


"4  Conquest 

VIII 

Arabella  Daly  sat  sewing  in  her  own  sitting-room. 
It  was  the  room  in  which  the  wife  of  Pierce  the  Rake  had, 
for  several  dreary  years,  bewailed  the  fortunes  of  the 
Daly  family.  At  her  death  it  had  been  shut  up,  and  had 
remained  unused  during  Ann  Daly's  time.  A  few  days 
after  Arabella's  marriage  Pierce  had  given  her  the  key, 
saying  that  the  south  room'd  be  some  place  for  her  to  go 
into  when  she  was  tired  of  the  voices  of  the  men  in  the 
parlour.  The  three  windows  in  the  bow  looked  on  to  the 
juniper  hedge  trellised  with  roses,  dividing  the  lawn  from 
the  garden,  and  gave  a  glimpse  of  the  river  beyond  the 
cedar  trees  on  the  right.  Another  window  at  the  side 
gave  a  view  of  the  Lisgeela  road. 

In  her  first  months  at  Scarty  Arabella  sat  of  tenest  by 
the  window  overlooking  the  road.  She  had  accepted 
Theobald  with  a  full  realization  of  his  narrow  life  and  had 
never  regretted  her  choice.  But  this  did  not  prevent 
longings  and  regrets  for  many  of  the  things  she  had  given 
up.  She  watched  the  road  day  after  day,  hoping  that 
her  mother  would  come.  Once,  as  she  sewed  a  dress  for 
the  baby  she  was  expecting,  she  saw  the  Lissyf  ad  horses 
turn  the  bend  with  Tanner  on  the  box.  She  pressed  the 
garment  to  her  breast  and  waited,  her  heart  beating 
violently,  till  she  got  a  side  view  of  the  Victoria.  Her 
heart  almost  stopped  as  she  saw  her  mother,  her  face 
white  and  strained,  gazing  at  the  house.  Her  tears  fell 
freely  on  the  white  muslin.  Of  course  her  mother  had 
felt  how  much  she  wanted  her  and  was  coming.  She 
rushed  to  the  front  door,  but  as  she  opened  it  the  carriage 
passed  by.  She  struggled  to  the  gate  and  watched,  with 
numbed  body  and  eyes  that  barely  registered  an  impres- 
sion, the  carriage  cross  the  bridge  and  drive  in  at  the 
Dalyhouse  gate. 


Conquest  us 

Nothing  mattered  very  much  after  that.  No  stabs 
ever  went  so  deep  again.  Her  father  rode  by  often  on  his 
way  to  meets  at  Ballyfahey  and  Knockeen,  sitting  his 
horse  stiffly,  never  even  looking  at  the  cottage.  Her 
brother  Jasper  always  walked  his  horse  past  and  stared 
half  shamefacedly,  half  contemptuously  at  the  house, 
Peter  with  his  regiment  in  India — how  would  he  treat 
her?  And  of  all  her  relatives  and  friends  Uncle  Silas  was 
the  only  one  that  had  called.  It  hurt,  but  she  felt  no 
bitterness,  though  she  took  to  sitting  in  the  bow  over- 
looking the  river. 

With  a  sort  of  tender  irony,  her  mind  went  back  over 
the  past  as  she  sewed  a  tuck  in  the  sleeve  of  one  of  Jim's 
shirts.  She  was  still  in  the  hastily  improvised  black 
dress  which  she  had  worn  at  the  funeral,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  herself  in  an  old  mirror  set  in  the  panelling 
between  the  windows.  What  had  it  all  mattered  to  her? 
She  smiled  faintly  with  her  lips,  but  there  was  no  change 
in  her  sad  eyes.  She  had  had  Theobald  and  now  there 
was  Jim.  The  room  breathed  of  Jim.  There  was  the 
little  old  oak  table  at  which  she  had  taught  him  his  first 
lessons,  and  the  hand  sewing  machine  with  which  she  had 
made  almost  every  garment  he  had  ever  worn,  and  the 
little  shelf  with  his  books.  She  snapped  a  thread.  Was 
he  to  be  snapped  off  from  her  just  like  that  ?  What  were 
her  own  plans  for  him  but  just  that  ?  Was  her  father-in- 
law  right  after  all?  There  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  door 
and  Susan  bobbed  in  her  head. 

"  It's  Father  Lysaght  come  to  see  you,  ma'am.  Will  I 
bring  in  the  tea  now  or  wait  till  the  master  and  Mister 
Jim  come  back?" 

"Bring  it  in  now,"  Arabella  said  as  she  put  aside  the 
sewing.  "It's  very  good  of  you  to  come  so  soon,"  she 
added,  shaking  hands  with  the  priest.  "  I  was  afraid  you 
couldn't  get  away  from  the  dinner." 


ii6  Conquest 

"My  dear  lady,  I'd  keep  an  appointment  with  His 
Satanic  Majesty  to  escape  carving  beef  for  twenty-five 
hungry  priests  on  a  hot  June  day.  What's  worrying  you  ? ' ' 

"It's  Jim,"  she  said  meekly. 

"There's  a  novelty  now,"  he  said  mockingly. 

"We  must  settle  about  him  before  I  begin  to  waver," 
she  said  pleadingly. 

' '  Wavering  ? "  he  said  drily.  ' '  You  must  give  me  some 
tea  to  strengthen  me  to  say  'Ditto'  to  all  the  foolishness 
you  have  already  decided  on.  A  funeral's  a  thirsty 
business." 

"You  know  I  always  ask  your  advice,"  she  said 
demurely. 

"And  always  follow  your  own  whims." 

"Considered  judgments,"  she  suggested. 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  fight  for  the  last  word  with  a 
woman.  And  here's  Susan  with  the  tea." 

"There's  four  cups  for  your  reverence,  without  calling 
on  the  water,"  Susan  said,  with  a  bob  towards  the  priest, 
"and  fine  and  strong  too,  to  your  liking." 

"  Not  even  our  tea  is  safe  from  you — I  like  mine 
weak,"  Arabella  complained. 

"You  can  water  yours  down,  ma'am,"  Susan  said 
primly,  as  she  left  the  room,  "but  sure,  the  clergy  must 
have  everything  to  their  taste." 

"Undue  influence  again,  I  suppose,"  the  priest  said 
derisively. 

"  I  don't  criticize  my  priests,"  Arabella  said  ironically, 
adding  more  seriously,  "Anyhow  I  forgive  them  a  lot  for 
the  beautiful  sermon  the  bishop  preached  to-day.  It  was 
wonderful." 

"Very,"  Father  Lysaght  said  drily. 

"Who's  critical  now?"  Arabella  laughed.  "And  to 
get  up  out  of  bed  too,  with  a  bad  cold !  It  was  a  remark- 
able funeral." 


Conquest  117 

"It  was,"  Father  Lysaght  said  with  a  chuckle.  "It 
was  reported  that  the  bishop  had  a  convenient  cold  and 
intended  to  snub  Pierce  Daly  by  not  attending  his 
brother's  funeral.  That  big  gathering  of  people  had  little 
to  do  with  poor  Father  Pat,  though  it  was  his  funeral. 
It  was  partly  a  political  meeting  in  honour  of  Pierce,  and 
partly  a  snub  to  the  bishop." 

"But  no  one  could  have  spoken  more  highly  than  Dr. 
Deehan  did  of  my  father-in-law — called  him  the  grand 
old  man  of  the  land  war,  a  model  patriot  and  what  not?" 

Father  Lysaght  nodded  and  swallowed  his  second  cup 
of  tea.  "Father  Carberry  got  wind  of  the  demon- 
stration, and  the  bishop  made  a  marvellous  recovery 
from  his  cold.  Even  Mallon,  the  grocer,  who  organized 
the  funeral,  admits  that  the  bishop  carried  off  all 
the  honours." 

"I  intend  to  send  Jim  to  an  English  school,"  she  said 
after  a  short  pause. 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows  whimsically.  "Beaumont  or 
Downside  or  Stony  hurst?"  he  asked,  holding  out  his 
cup. 

"No,  not  to  a  Catholic  school.  Winchester — if  I 
can  get  him  in.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  he  knows — 
whether  he  must  go  to  a  private  school  first  or  have  a 
tutor.  What  has  he  learned  at  the  college? " 

"Now,  Mrs.  Daly,  that's  hitting  below  the  belt.  Re- 
member I'm  a  priest  and  a  governor  of  the  college — may 
God  forgive  me." 

"Well?"  she  said  with  a  smile. 

"I  must  have  another  cup  of  tea  to  give  me  courage. 
There  was  a  saying  in  Maynooth  in  my  time,  with  which 
we  used  to  make  mincemeat  of  Darwin  and  the  evolu- 
tionists— nemo  dat  quod  non  habet.  You  can't  knock 
blood  out  of  a  stone,  it  means.  It  didn't  hurt  Darwin- 
ism, but  it  has  its  application  to  the  college." 


us  Conquest 

Father  Lysaght  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Mrs.  Daly 
looked  meditatively  at  the  river.  After  a  while  the  priest 
said,  "But  you  needn't  worry  about  the  boy;  he  knows 
more  than  most  boys  of  nine.  He  was  well  grounded  by 
Begley  the  schoolmaster  and  yourself." 

"  I  wasn't  worrying.  I  was  trying  to  decide  between  a 
preparatory  school  and  a  tutor.  I  want  to  be  fair  to 
him,  but  I  want  to  see  as  much  of  him  as  I  can." 

"Then  you  have  decided,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"A  year  or  two  at  a  good  day  school  with  a  good  tutor 
as  well — he  has  leeway  to  make  up — might  be  best,"  she 
said  thoughtfully. 

"That  will  mean  your  going  away?" 

"My  life  is  his.  Now  that  that's  settled,  the  rest  is  all 
clear.  I  shall  take  him  abroad  for  all  his  holidays.  He 
must  know  languages,  and  that's  the  best  way.  He  has 
a  smattering  from  me  already  of  French  and  Italian  and 
German.  He  must  know  them  well  and  pick  up  some 
others." 

"  My  God.     You'll  muddle  the  boy's  head." 

"Oh  no,  I  won't.  He  laps  up  a  language,  and  I  shall 
like  it  myself,  too.  I've  been  shut  up  here  for  ten  years," 
she  added  after  a  pause,  her  eyes  again  on  the  river. 

"You're  a  wonderful  woman,"  he  said  simply.  "  I'm  a 
bit  worried  though,"  he  added  hastily,  "about  that 
English  Protestant  school.  Pierce  won't  like  it  because 
it's  English,  nor  the  bishop  because  it's  Protestant." 

"My  father-in-law  is  a  difficulty,"  she  admitted. 
"  I've  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  last  two  days  worrying 
about  him.  I  don't  see  any  way  out  that  won't  hurt 
him,  and  he's  done  more  for  me  and  for  Jim  than  any  one 
but  you  could  ever  understand.  I'd  sacrifice  myself 
willingly  for  him,  but  not  Jim.  He  lives  in  the  boy,  but 
so  do  I.  I've  seen  too  many  children  sacrificed  to  their 
parents  to  lay  mine  on  any  altar." 


Conquest  119 

"He'll  say  you're  bringing  him  up  English  and  anti- 
Irish,"  he  said  moodily. 

"Parnell  was  educated  at  English  schools  and  Hugh 
O'Neill  was  brought  up  at  the  court  of  Elizabeth,"  she 
said  with  a  smile. 

"There's  a  point  in  that,"  he  said  seriously. 

She  laughed.  "Even  the  best  of  priests  are  Jesuitical. 
I  suppose  I  can  be  too — for  Jim." 

"It  might  appeal  to  Pierce,"  the  priest  laughed  hearti- 
ly, "to  send  the  boy  to  an  English  school  to  learn  their 
tricks  and  be  able  to  turn  their  own  weapons  against  'em." 

"I  hope  that  Jim  will  see  the  foolishness  of  many 
English  and  Irish  prejudices,"  she  said  gravely. 

"And  be  a  man  of  the  world,  like  your  Uncle  Silas,"  he 
said  slyly. 

"God  forbid,"  she  said  earnestly.  "Jim  will  always 
have  beliefs  and  convictions.  He's  too  much  of  a  Quix- 
ote and  a  Daly  not  to — but  his  prejudices  must  be  his 
own.  I'm  determined  that  he  shall  see  and  hear  all 
sides." 

"In  religion  too?"  he  said  gently. 

"I'm  his  religion  now,"  she  said  calmly.  "Some  day, 
if  it's  going  to  mean  anything  in  his  life,  he'll  have  his 
own." 

"Converts  never  slough  all  their  heterodoxy,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh. 

"And  priests  must  be  professional,"  she  laughed. 
"But  you  know  well  what  I  mean.  And  you  needn't 
worry  about  the  Protestantism  of  English  public  schools 
— they  are  just  schools.  They're  so  tolerant  that  they 
coddle  Catholics  as  they  would  a  rare  mediaeval  relic.  Jim 
will  find  himself  more  in  the  hands  of  priests  than  he'll 
like.  I  wish  he  could  be  as  well  protected  against  other 
things,  but  he'll  be  no  worse  off  at  Winchester  than  in  a 
Catholic  school." 


120  Conquest 

The  priest  nodded  gloomily.  "All  the  same  it's  a 
dangerous  experiment.  Perhaps  it's  sacrificing  him  on 
some  little  private  altar  of  your  own  you  are." 

"  It's  no  experiment — it's  simply  the  best  I  can  do,"  she 
said  with  a  patient  sigh.  "Though  I  suppose  all  educa- 
tion is  an  experiment — and  a  very  poor  one  at  that,  I'm 
afraid.  If  I'm  trying  an  experiment  it  is  the  outcome 
of  my  own  experience.  If  I  have  any  certainty  about 
Ireland  it  is  that  children  are  deliberately  educated  to 
misunderstand  one  another.  You  were  brought  up  in  a 
watertight  compartment,  a  good  little  Catholic  whose 
first  duty  in  life  was  to  despise  Protestants.  I  was 
brought  up  in  a  tank  on  the  other  side,  where  all  Catholics 
were  anathema. ' ' 

"Yet  you  saw  the  truth — you  came  over,"  he  said 
triumphantly. 

"I  saw  Theobald,"  she  said  softly.  "Once  in  a  way 
love  gets  a  chance  and  resolves  all  hates.  But  I  want 
something  more  than  a  rare  miracle  which  has  no  bearing 
on  the  question.  Till  I  was  twenty-two  I  heard  all  the 
Protestant  twaddle  about  Catholics.  For  the  last  ten 
years  I've  heard  all  the  Catholic  twaddle  about  Protest- 
ants. Honestly  I  can't  say  which  is  worse.  Both  sides 
are  grossly  unfair.  Suspicions,  innuendoes,  lies — any 
vile  stick  is  good  enough  to  beat  one  another  with.  It's 
not  religion,  it's  blasphemy,"  she  added  bitterly. 

"That's  a  hard  word  for  your  own  religion,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  religion,"  she  said  with  a  smile, 
"but  of  the  irreligion  that  unfortunately  goes  with  it.  I 
love  my  religion  but  I  refuse  to  accept  hatred  and  mis- 
representation of  Protestants  as  part  of  it." 

"Your  own  people  threw  you  over  when  you  married 
a  Catholic,"  he  said  grimly. 

"The  pot  calling  the  kettle  black,"   she  laughed. 


Conquest  121 

"  But  I  don't  quarrel  with  it — it  fairly  represents  the  two 
churches  in  Ireland.  I'm  not  attacking  either  side.  I'm 
merely  defending  both — from  themselves.  I  have  been 
in  both  camps  and  I've  found  the  same  sort  of  decent 
people  in  both.  Their  God  is  the  same  and  their  love  of 
Him  is  the  same.  They  have  similar  faults  and  similar 
virtues.  Yet  each  side  attributes  to  the  other  some 
sort  of  horrible  demonology.  Susan  Roche  thinks  the 
Protestant  God  is  a  savage  Orange-evicting  Unionist 
landlord  who  tortures  Catholics.  Tanner's  idea  of  the 
Catholic  God  is  a  bloodthirsty,  rebel  peasant  in  some 
vague  trappings  of  the  Pope  of  Rome.  Either  would 
willingly  accept  the  other's  God  as  her  or  his  own  devil. 
And  you  keep  up  this  criminal  farce,  Father  Lysaght." 

"I?"  he  said  indignantly. 

"Yes,  you  and  the  other  priests  and  parsons.  You 
keep  the  people  apart,  you  bring  the  children  up  in  sepa- 
rate schools.  You  are  a  Home  Ruler.  If  you  get  control 
of  the  Government  do  you  mean  to  ride  roughshod  over 
all  the  Protestants?" 

"What  nonsense,"  he  said  pettishly. 

"Then  why  don't  you  allow  Catholic  children  to  go  to 
school  with  Protestant  children?  They  might  each  at 
least  find  out  that  the  other  doesn't  wear  a  tail  and  horns 
and  hoofs,  and  who  knows  but  they  might  discover  a 
common  humanity." 

"Now,  now,  Mrs.  Daly,  we  must  protect  the  young 
from " 

"From  having  common  sense,"  she  interrupted. 

"What  has  come  over  you  at  all?"  he  said,  distressed. 
"  It  can't  be  that  you're  not  happy  in  your  religion." 

"Perfectly  happy.  But  I  wish  religion  in  Ireland,  on 
both  sides,  wasn't  so  mixed  up  with  land  and  politics  and 
racial  and  class  hatred." 

"That  all  comes  from  the  Orangemen.    There's  no 


122  Conquest 

harm  in  the  Catholics.  They  use  hard  words  occasion- 
ally, but  it's  the  Orangemen " 

She  laughed.  "I  heard  almost  the  same  words,  with 
the  religions  reversed,  from  our  rector  when  I  was  a 
child." 

"That's  very  odd,"  he  said  meditatively. 

"I  wonder  how  Jim  will  turn  out,"  she  said  after  a 
pause. 

"Oh,  he'll  hold  his  own,"  the  priest  said  proudly. 
"With  his  own  size  and  weight  or  a  bit  above  it  he'll  be 
able  to  give  a  good  account  of  himself  and  his  religion 
anywhere." 


PART  TWO 


SIR  SILAS  LEVIN,  K.C.B.,  gazed  pensively  at  the  tired 
and  wilted  trees  of  the  Green  Park.  The  world  of  inner 
politics  and  diplomacy  was  disturbed,  and  he  had  had 
what  he  called  a  stiff  morning,  but  there  was  no  trace  of 
worry  in  his  impassive  face. 

A  club  acquaintance  wandered  into  the  large  bow, 
looked  hesitatingly  at  the  erect  trim  figure  that  showed 
no  sign  of  age  beyond  whitened  hair  and  moustache, 
rattled  keys  in  his  trousers  pocket,  and  said,  with  a  look 
at  the  open  window  shaded  by  gay  sun  blinds: 

"  This  is  the  coolest  room  in  London  in  August." 

"So,"  Levin  said,  with  the  well-known  intonation, 
correct  and  polite,  which  few  bores  survived. 

Buller  moved  off  with  a  sigh.  And  Levin  would  have 
been  interested  in  that  elephant  hunt  in  the  eighties 
recalled  by  this  blasted  quivering  heat,  but  no  doubt  he 
was  worried  over  the  state  of  Europe — things  were  said 
to  be  dicky. 

Had  he  known  Sir  Silas  intimately  he  would  have 
recognized  the  slight  movement  in  the  left  eyebrow  as 
a  sign  of  intense  irritation.  Buller  had  opened  conver- 
sation with  his  innocent  platitude  dozens  of  times  on  most 
days — "coolest"  became  "cosiest"  in  cold  weather,  and 
the  month  changed  with  the  calendar — for  thirty  years. 
Sir  Silas  knew  it  as  well  as  he  knew  the  Green  Park,  and 
had  hitherto  received  it  with  a  responsive  smile.  Buller 
might  be  a  bore  about  big  game,  but  he  knew  more  about 
123 


124  Conquest 

the  interior  of  Africa  than  any  man  in  London,  and  Sir 
Silas  had  a  thirst  for  exclusive  information.  It  was  the 
collocation  of  "London"  and  "August"  that  almost 
moved  him  to  the  unbelievable  solecism  of  "damn  the 
fellow."  Happily  neither  lips  nor  eyes  betrayed  his 
emotion.  It  was  enough  to  rile  a  saint  or  slightly  pro- 
voke a  diplomatist  of  sixty-one.  Not  even  during  the 
Boer  War  had  he  been  kept  in  London  and  missed  the 
twelfth.  Without  moving  an  eyelid  he  roundly  damned 
a  then  friendly  power.  His  letter  to  the  duchess  had 
been  temporizing;  and  she  had  been  more  than  kind — 
for  the  twelfth,  too — in  leaving  the  invitation  open,  but 
nothing  short  of  a  sudden  drop,  of  which  there  was  no 
sign,  of  the  political  temperature  would  now  make 
acceptance  possible. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  his 
methodical  mind  was  occupied  for  a  moment  with  a  more 
immediate  wrong.  The  sole  he  had  ordered  for  luncheon 
would  be  spoiled  if  Jim  Daly  wasn't  here  in  five  minutes. 
He  looked  down  his  slim  body  with  a  smile.  It  was 
rather  a  joke  that  fellows  at  the  office  took  the  hefty  young 
giant  for  his  nephew.  The ' '  Uncle  Silas ' '  deceived  them ; 
or,  more  likely,  his  own  youthful  appearance.  After  all, 
he  was  still  young,  so  much  younger  than  his  brother  that 
he  was  more  like  the  brother  of  his  niece  Arabella.  The 
hock  would  be  too  cold  if  Jim  wasn't  punctual.  .  .  . 

He  had  shown  some  lack  of  discernment  in  having  had 
misgivings  about  the  boy.  But  then  the  whole  circum- 
stances were  so  peculiar — the  queer  manage  at  Scarty — 
even  now  with  a  comfortable  income.  And  that  dreadful 
old  peasant  with  no  sense  of  humour  in  politics.  The  boy 
was  dogmatic,  too,  and  viewy;  a  bit  bumptious  perhaps, 
but  that  was  youth  and  would  wear  off.  It  wasn't  every 
youngster  whom  Draycott  noticed;  and  to  say  that  Daly 
was  a  leg-up  to  the  Foreign  Office  was  enthusiastic  for 


Conquest  125 

such  an  austere  chief.  It  was  double-edged,  like  most  of 
Draycott's  compliments,  to  add  that  diplomacy  couldn't 
boast  of  many  double-firsts.  It  was  so  like  Draycott's 
bookishness  to  harp  on  mere  intellectual  equipment  in  an 
office  where  knowledge  of  men  and  of  the  world  and  a 
facility  in  languages  were  the  prime  necessity.  He  drew 
himself  up  serenely.  If  Jim  had  only  his  knowledge  of 
the  world  he  would  do  well  in  the  service.  It  would  do 
him  no  harm,  of  course,  to  have  the  intellectual  link  with 
Draycott,  and  he  could  jabber  languages  thirteen  to  the 
dozen.  He  glanced  at  the  scare  heading  running  across 
the  front  page  of  an  evening  newspaper  with  a  smile  of 
superiority  and  murmured, "  So  they've  got  it  at  last — the 
wrong  end  of  it  too — three  days  late." 

"Sorry  if  I'm  late,"  Jim  Daly,  tall  and  broad- 
shouldered,  said  in  eager  apology,  having  caught  the  last 
word. 

"Bless  me,  Jim,  you're  a  tornado.  But  you've  saved 
the  sole." 

"Mine  or  yours?" 

"Both.  For  I'd  have  damned  your  soul  in  another 
minute  to  the  detriment  of  my  own,"  Sir  Silas  said  with 
a  chuckle  appreciative  of  the  thin  witticism.  He  was 
slightly  hurt  that  Jim  didn't  laugh.  But  the  boy  was 
looking  round  at  the  antlered  heads,  fish,  and  primitive 
weapons  that  lined  the  walls. 

"A  comfortable  crib  this — looks  sporting." 

"  It  not  only  looks  it,  but  it  is — the  club,  perhaps,  of  the 
kind  in  the  world,"  Sir  Silas  said  a  little  pompously. 

"Not  much  in  your  line,  eh,  Uncle  Silas?" 

Sir  Silas  meditated  a  snub,  but  decided  against  it. 
The  boy  was  so  jolly  in  his  loose  tweeds.  And  the  air 
of  negligence  came  of  a  first-class  tailor.  Those  young 
fellows  had  no  reverence,  and  there  was  a  twinkle,  too,  in 
the  large  blue  eyes.  There  was  very  little  appearance  of 


126  Conquest 

the  student  in  the  straight  back  and  tanned  face.  He 
laughed  quietly. 

"  I  find  myself  telling  you  all  my  secrets,  my  dear  boy," 
he  said,  taking  Jim's  arm.  "But  let's  be  going  down — 
the  hock  will  be  just  right.  This  is  a  refuge,"  he  went  on 
confidentially.  "In  a  crisis  my  other  two  clubs  are 
impossible.  Bishops  and  third  secretaries  are  equally 
inquisitive.  But  here" — he  waved  a  hand  towards  the 
heads  in  the  hall — "not  a  man  who  has  an  idea  of  the 
British  Empire  but  as  a  game  preserve." 

"Jolly  near  right,"  Jim  said. 

"Eh,  what?"  Sir  Silas  said  sharply. 

"I  did  hear  there  was  a  rumpus  on,"  Jim  said  imper- 
turbably.  "There  was  a  vague  rumour  of  it  in  the 
nursery,  where  I'm  fed  on  pap  and  the  alphabet.  What's 
the  row,  Uncle  Silas?" 

Sir  Silas  pursed  his  lips  slightly  and  shook  his  head 
with  a  condescending  smile.  "  I  mustn't  breathe  a  word. 
But  it's  very  important — very.  Something  more  than  a 
rumble.  But  it  will  pass — it  shall  pass.  We  will  see  to 
that." 

"Some  day  the  Rads  will  have  your  neck,  Uncle. 
Huggermugger  diplomacy,  ending  in  some  rotten  job, 
and  a  let  in  for  the  country — so  they  spoke  of  you  at  the 
Union." 

Sir  Silas  smiled.  "  Youth  will  have  its  fling.  I  was  a 
bit  of  a  Rad  once  myself — not  since  I  arrived  at  respon- 
sible office,  of  course.  Precedent  and  compromise,  my 
boy,  are  the  wheels  of  our  almost  perfect  machine." 

"Flummery  and  evasion,"  Jim  laughed,  helping  him- 
self liberally  to  sole. 

"Well,  well,  perhaps,  just  a  little,"  Sir  Silas  said  toler- 
antly, "and  there's  always  the  big  stick  behind.  How 
do  you  find  that  hock?" 

"Not  half  bad." 


Conquest  ^7 

"You  young  cub,"  Sir  Silas  said  with  the  indignation 
he  reserved  for  the  most  important  things  in  life.  ' '  There 
isn't  another  hock  like  it  in  London.  A  nice  discrimi- 
nation in  wine  is  as  important  in  diplomacy  as  an  apt 
quotation.  I  remember  once,  a  very  ticklish  affair  it 
was,  bringing  the  French  plenipotentiary  over  to  our  side 
by  a  delicate  appreciation  of  Moselle — rank  stuff  it  was 
too.  But  he  was  one  of  those  mad  regional  fellows — you 
know  the  type  in  Ireland.  A  smack  of  my  lips — a  bit 
vulgar,  perhaps,  but  the  interest  of  the  Empire  was  at 
stake — a  few  judicious  words,  a  tag  of  Horace,  and  the 
thing  was  done.  You'll  find  life  in  the  P.O.  extraordin- 
arily interesting.  At  first,  of  course,  while  you're  cutting 
your  teeth,  it  will  be  largely  social.  But  in  twelve  or 
fifteen  years,  when  you've  learned  your  way  round  and 
have  begun  to  be  let  into  things — always  provided  you 
show  tact,  of  course — you'll  have  the  ball  at  your  feet. 
Brains  are  well  enough  in  their  way,  but  tact  is  the  thing. 
And  don't  neglect  women.  Wives  count  most  in  England 
— others  abroad  generally.  Bear  in  mind  that  no  Ger- 
man woman  has  any  influence ;  and  American  women  are 
so  busy  in  making  a  social  position  that  they  take  only  a 
superficial  interest  in  politics.  But  a  nice  punctilio  is 
necessary  with  all  women.  Few  only  can  help,  but  all 
are  able  to  hurt.  And  don't  get  entangled.  I'm  not  a 
prude,  but  it  complicates  things  and  plays  the  very  devil 
— in  England.  Your  career  simply  can't  afford  it.  In  a 
Protestant  country  your  religion  would  seem  to  be  against 
you,  but  nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth — it's  a 
vulgar  error  of  the  herd  and  of  Irish  Protestants.  Well, 
we  don't  regard  the  Pope  exactly  with  the  eyes  of  Belfast 
Orangemen.  There's  no  official  connection,  of  course, 
but — well,  you  know  how  things  are  done.  There's  a 
subtlety  about  ecclesiastical  diplomacy  that's  very 
fascinating."  He  sipped  his  hock  reminiscently.  "On 


128  Conquest 

the  whole,  I  should  say,  you'll  find  your  faith  a  distinct 
asset." 

"Thanks  for  the  lecture,  Uncle  Si.  Diplomacy 
sounds  a  bit  piffle,  don't  you  think?  But  the  hock's 
bully.  May  I  have  another  glass?" 

Jim  poured  himself  out  a  glass  as  he  spoke. 

Sir  Silas  regarded  him  with  mixed  feelings.  Tact  was 
distinctly  lacking,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  to  appreci- 
ate that  wine  at  twenty-four  was  something.  "A  little 
more  care  in  the  choice  of  words  perhaps,"  he  suggested 
vaguely. 

"Oh,"  Jim  said  with  a  nod  of  intelligence.  "We're 
such  chums,  you  know,  Uncle  Silas.  But  I'll  turn  on 
another  tap  if  you  really  wish  me  to." 

The  slight  tone  of  patronage  made  Sir  Silas  say  hastily, 
"With  me,  my  boy?  Quite  absurd.  But  with  others, 
perhaps,"  he  hedged  a  little.  "Well,  you've  entered  a 
service  which  demands  a  certain  gravity — always  with  a 
light  touch,  of  course." 

"  It's  my  work,  I  suppose,"  Jim  said  with  a  shrug.  "  I 
feel  like  a  kid  at  an  infant  school  doing  silly  things  that 
lead  nowhere." 

"In  time,  my  boy,  in  time.  /  did  those  things — and 
well,  I  have  arrived,"  Sir  Silas  said  with  a  complacent 
smile. 

If  Jim  meant  anything  beyond  respectful  attention  by 
his  level  look  it  was  admirably  concealed,  Sir  Silas 
admitted  to  himself  as  he  disposed  of  the  remainder  of 
the  bottle.  The  boy  had  undoubtedly  a  certain  poise. 
Would  he  protest  against  the  full  glass  ?  Sir  Silas  poured 
slowly,  but  it  wasn't  till  the  straw-coloured  liquid  was 
almost  level  with  the  top  of  the  glass  that  Jim  drawled 
"thanks."  Sir  Silas  rather  ruefully  poured  what  re- 
mained into  his  own  glass,  murmuring  to  himself  that 
the  boy  had  nerve. 


Conquest  129 

"  I'm  tempted  to  chuck  the  whole  thing  and  go  in  for 
politics,"  Jim  said  meditatively. 

"Good  Lord!"  Sir  Silas  said  with  the  finest  shade  of 
irritation.  "Would  you  exchange  the  substance  for  the 
shadow,  legitimate  pride  for  a  hollow  vanity,  real  power 

"You  mean  you  fellows  are  the  real  trick  riders,  while 
the  political  blighters  are  the  clowns  who  smirk  and 
scrape  and  pretend  they've  done  it? "  Jim  said  blandly. 

"  Precisely — though  I  eschew  circus  metaphors." 

"I  forgot — you  prefer 'em  church,"  Jim  said  gravely 
as  he  finished  his  hock. 

"We'll  have  some  coffee,"  Sir  Silas  said  austerely. 

As  he  stood  waiting  his  turn  to  pay  his  bill  he  gazed 
thoughtfully  through  the  glass  doors  at  Jim's  back.  The 
rogue  knew,  of  course,  of  his  weakness  for  the  Hippo- 
drome and  that  he  never  went  to  church  except  at  Lissy- 
fad.  There  was  a  careless  assurance  that  promised  well 
in  the  set  of  the  boy's  head  and  shoulders.  There  were 
faint  indications  of  the  rapier  even  now,  though  his 
natural  weapon  seemed  to  be  the  bludgeon.  And  those 
honours  didn't  show  through. 

"You'll  stick  it  out,  Jim,"  he  said  with  more  of  appeal 
than  was  his  wont,  and  a  confidential  squeeze  of  an  arm, 
as  they  made  their  way  to  the  smoking-room. 

"Got  to — for  a  few  years,  anyhow.  Promised  the 
mater." 

Sir  Silas  forgot  his  shallow  probing  for  the  moment  in  a 
more  generous  human  liking.  The  boy  was  made  of 
good  stuff.  And  his  mother  deserved  it,  too — she  had 
made  him  what  he  was. 

"When  do  you  cross?"  he  asked. 

"Night  mail,"  Jim  said,  his  eyes  lighting  up.  "Better 
come,  Uncle  Silas.  Leave  all  this  jabber  here,  and  I'll 
give  you  some  fishing.  Thank  God  for  the  P.O. — I've 


139  Conquest 

got  two  months  of  Ireland  in  front  of  me.  Do  come. 
We'll  have  a  ripping  time.  I  can't  believe  the  old  P.O. 
is  ever  worried  about  anything.  You  can  come  if  you 
want  to." 

Sir  Silas  gave  him  the  smile  that  betokened  depths 
of  incommunicable  knowledge,  but  thought  it  well  to 
explain  a  little. 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  haven't  missed  a  twelfth  in  Scotland 
for  thirty  years.  So  you  can  imagine  how  I  feel  at  being 
kept  in  London  in  this  heat,  and  the  extreme  gravity  of 
the  affairs  that  keep  me  here.  But  apart  from  the  politi- 
cal atmosphere — many  thanks  for  the  invitation — I'm 
as  likely  to  be  found  in  the  Sahara  in  August  as  in  Ire- 
land. Not  a  decent  grouse  moor  in  the  country.  I'm 
blessed  if  it  breeds  anything  but  difficulties." 

He  touched  a  bell,  pointed  to  a  deep  armchair,  and 
sank  into  another. 

"Not  that  one  escapes  Ireland  by  staying  out  of  it," 
he  began  with  a  sigh.  "I  ought  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  damned  island — officially  I  mean — yet  it's  a  big 
part  of  my  worry  now.  It  has  a  whole  machinery  of 
Government  all  to  itself,  but  do  you  think  it  sticks  there? 
It  invades  every  Department.  It  bobs  up  all  over  the 
world — in  America,  in  all  the  colonies,  in  Egypt.  It  has 
more  than  once  prevented  an  advantageous  treaty.  All 
the  Chancelleries  of  Europe  twit  us  with  it.  An  un- 
speakable young  Turk  had  the  audacity,  at  a  confer- 
ence of  the  Powers,  to  bring  it  up  as  a  precedent 
for  Armenian  atrocities.  If  we  mention  the  Congo 
someone  murmurs  Ireland.  Germans  make  compari- 
sons with — good  God! — their  humane  treatment  of  the 
Herreros." 

He  stopped  and  watched  meditatively  the  approach  of 
a  waiter.  "I  must  have  a  liqueur  as  a  sedative.  You 
won't  join  me?" 


Conquest  131 

He  gave  an  order,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  puffed  thought- 
fully. 

"It's  a  malignant  disease  dangerous  only  to  British 
interests,  and  it  finds  out  the  weak  spot  everywhere,  at 
home  and  abroad.  When  we  think  we  have  stamped  it 
out  it  crops  up  afresh,  only  more  virulently.  It's  like 
influenza." 

"Its  pathology  is  simpler,"  Jim  murmured. 

"  Eh ,  what  ? "  Sir  Silas  said  sharply,  but  as  Jim  made  no 
reply  he  went  on:  "I'm  so  used  to  Ireland  as  a  ghost  at 
every  feast  that  I'd  almost  think  it  a  hallucination 
if  at  this  moment  it  didn't  threaten  to  break  up  the 
Empire." 

"Out  with  it,  uncle,"  Jim  said  coolly.  "What's  the 
whole  fuss  about  ?" 

"Cabinet  secret,"  Sir  Silas  almost  snapped.  "And 
even  if  it  weren't  I'm  not  sure  that  I'd  discuss  the  subject 
with  you.  I  forgot  the  rebel  strain  in  you — I  thought 
you  had  shed  all  that." 

"  I  can't  shed  my  mind,"  Jim  laughed,  "unless,  indeed, 
the  P.O.  reduces  it  to  pulp.  Come  now,  uncle,  confess. 
Doesn't  the  whole  trouble  come  of  the  muddled  incom- 
petence of  the  old  Government?" 

"A  Liberal  Government  is  apt  to  drive  the  ship  on  the 
rocks,"  Sir  Silas  said  moodily. 

"And  a  Tory  to  keep  it  there,"  Jim  jeered. 

"Pup,"  Sir  Silas  said  tolerantly.  "Perhaps  even  the 
Tories  do  interfere  too  much  with  the  permanent 
officials." 

"Oh,  they're  as  blind  as  bats,"  Jim  said  fervently, 
adding  a  little  hastily  but  with  some  aplomb,  "But 
you've  pulled  'em  out  of  many  a  hole,  Uncle  Si — you're 
sure  to  pull  'em  out  of  this — whatever  it  is." 

"Thank  you,"  Sir  Silas  said  urbanely,  but  with  a  slight 
flicker  of  an  eyelid.  "There's  only  one  thing  left  for 


132  Conquest 


Ireland,  and  that's  to  sink  it,"  he  added,  sipping  his 
fine  champagne. 

"You've  tried  so  many  brilliant  solutions  with  such 
gorgeous  results!  Yes,  why  not  try  sinking  it?  From 
very  cussedness  it'd  drift  over  and  block  up  Liverpool 
and  Bristol.  It's  such  an  impracticable  country,"  Jim 
said  gravely.  "But  we're  forgetting  the  snipe  shooting 
over  Looskey  bog,"  he  added  with  a  twinkle.  "You 
wouldn't  sacrifice  that,  Uncle  Si?" 

"I  won't  have  my  leg  pulled,  sir,"  Sir  Silas  said 
severely.  "You're  all  a  pack  of  foolish  children — Orange 
and  Green  alike." 

' '  We're  getting  on, "  Jim  said  placidly.  ' '  A  Protestant 
Irishman  (a  responsible  official,  too)  admits — it  would  be 
'violently  asserts'  but  for  the  diplomatic  manner — that 
Orangemen  are  foolish.  Carson  too,  of  course  ? " 

"There  is  no  Scotch  question,"  Sir  Silas  said  gloomily. 

"Oh,  you  can  always  bag  a  Scotchman  with  a  job — it 
only  gives  an  Irishman  funds  to  push  his  grievance. 
Besides,  they  won't  all  take  jobs." 

"They  took  the  land." 

"Their  own,  and  they're  paying  for  it." 

"Railways,  harbours,  labourers'  cottages — it  would 
take  me  hours  to  go  through  the  list  of  gifts." 

"Restitution  you  mean,  and  only  half-hearted  at  that. 
There's  excess  taxation  in  a  century  of  over  three  hund- 
red millions." 

"The  same  old  platitudes." 

"It's  not  Ireland's  fault  that  they're  rather  time-worn 
truths." 

' '  What  in  God's  name  do  those  people  want  ? "  Sir  Silas 
said  with  a  shrug  of  exasperation. 

1 '  Their  country, ' '  Jim  said  shortly.  ' '  They've  said  so 
once  or  twice  in  eight  hundred  years,"  he  added  with  a 
humorous  twinkle. 


Conquest  133 

"Pooh-pooh!"  Sir  Silas  said  with  a  wry  face. 

"  Fie,  Uncle  Silas — and  you're  teaching  me  diplomacy. 
Is  that  an  expression  to  use  in  a  discussion?  Is  it  tact- 
ful?" 

"  Yo  u  impudent  young  ruffian!  You'd  try  any  one's 
patience.  Ireland  a  nation !  It's  too  silly.  I'm  broad- 
minded,"  he  added  with  a  quick  recovery  of  his  pompous 
manner.  "I  wasn't  against  Gladstone's  Land  Act, 
though  I  couldn't  approve  his  Home  Rule  Bill.  Gerald 
Balfour's  Congested  Districts  Board  was  a  step  on  the 
right  path.  Horace  Plunkett  is  a  good  fellow.  His 
co-operative  work — admirable.  His  Department  of 
Agriculture — sound.  Much  sounder  than  Horace  him- 
self, I'm  afraid.  He  moves  too  fast.  Has  too  much 
conscience  for  a  party  man — it  might  lead  him  anywhere. 
I  had  hoped  that  poor  George  Wyndham  would  have 
settled  everything  with  his  Land  Act  that  made  English 
farmers'  mouths  water.  He'd  have  gone  farther,  and 
I've  have  been  with  him,  only  the  Orangemen  did  him  in. 
His  idea  was  some  sort  of  council.  McDonnell  brought 
the  idea  from  India,  and  Birrell  afterwards  bagged  it. 
But  the  Liberals  have  no  art  in  these  things — didn't 
use  bait  enough  for  the  bishops.  The  Rads  did  better 
with  their  University  Act — showed  a  good  deal  of  tact, 
too,  in  swallowing  their  principles.  Birrell  advocating 
a  sectarian  university  was  a  sight  for  the  gods,  but  we 
have  a  certain  dexterity  in  things  of  the  kind,  thanks  to 
our  Indian  experience.  It's  disheartening,  though, 
that  we  have  got  very  little  gratitude  for  all  these  magnif- 
icent efforts  in  sound  constructive  statesmanship.  And 
now  we're  up  to  our  eyes  in  the  whole  mess  again.  Don't 
breathe  it,  but  the  whole  of  Europe  may  be  at  one 
another's  throats  any  moment,  and  Ireland  again 
threatens  to  split  the  country  when  we  need,  as  we  never 
needed  before,  a  united  front." 


134  Conquest 

"Good!"  Jim  said  approvingly.  "That  explains  the 
federal  tosh  then?" 

"Hum,  hum!  It's  an  idea.  It  has  to  be  explored — 
Royal  Commission  and  all  that.  It  may  smooth  over 
things." 

"Won't  wash,"  Jim  said  with  decision. 

"As  I  said,  I  wish  the  damned  island  were  out  of  the 
way,  "Sir  Silas  said  fretfully.  "  It '  s  an  old  man  of  the  sea 
dragging  at  our  ankles.  Those  pig-headed  Orangemen 
are  as  bad  as  the  Nationalists.  All  sides  are  suspicious. 
There's  some  new  extreme  set  with  an  unpronounceable 
name  egging  Redmond  on ;  and  Carson  is  like  a  melan- 
choly devil's  advocate  spitting  venom.  They  all  dis- 
trust us." 

"The  consciousness  of  shining  virtue  will  console 
you,"  Jim  said  with  a  grin.  "It's  a  help,  too,  to  see  other 
people's  sins  so  vividly." 

"By  Jove,  it's  three  o'clock,  and  I've  a  conference," 
Sir  Silas  said  with  a  meditative  and  not  altogether 
approving  glance  at  his  grand-nephew. 

In  the  cloakroom  he  said  abruptly: 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  like  your  attitude  of  mind  about 
all  this,  Jim.  A  little  Socialism  or  anything  of  that  sort 
is  pardonable,  but  the  Empire  is  sensitive  about  its 
boundaries.  However,  the  young  know  everything. 
What  would  you  do?" 

"  Find  out  what  they  want  and  give  it  to  them." 

"  I  must  say  I  expected  more  of  you.  You  err  against 
the  first  principle  of  sound  statesmanship — give  subject 
peoples  only  what's  good  for  them." 

"No  wonder  they  love  you  dearly,"  Jim  said  with  a 
laugh.  "Good-bye,  Uncle  Silas.  And  be  sure  and 
settle  the  Irish  question  while  I'm  away." 

"The  young  scamp — a  rebel  to  his  finger-tips,"  Sir 
Silas  said  to  himself  with  a  shrug,  lazily  swinging  a  gold- 


Conquest  X35 

headed  malacca  as  he  crossed  to  the  Green  Park.    ' '  Well, 
well,  we're  a  tolerant  people." 


II 

Jim  took  the  Greenore  boat-train  partly  because  the 
lack  of  work  at  the  office  was  more  irksome  than  usual, 
with  Ireland  looming  so  near;  partly  because  it  gave  a 
thin  illusion  of  getting  him  home  sooner  than  the  Kings- 
town boat-train,  which  left  Euston  more  than  an  hour 
later:  also  one  dined  with  more  comfort,  and  there  was 
the  extra  sleep  on  the  boat. 

It  was  still  light  outside  when  the  train  got  into  the 
open  at  Willesden.  He  stood  in  the  corridor,  out  of  the 
glare  of  the  electric  light,  and  watched  the  line  of  red  fire 
on  the  horizon  in  the  west.  Over  there  somewhere  was 
Ireland  and  Scarty,  the  Owneybeg  and  Looskey  bog. 
By  some  such  light  he  remembered  it,  only  much  more 
wonderful.  The  bronze  ball  in  the  south,  hung  between 
the  tree-tops,  was  only  a  Japanese  lantern  compared  with 
the  August  moon  rising  above  the  shoulder  of  Mooncon. 
Was  it  really  so,  or  had  he  only  imagined  it  ?  Something 
seemed  to  tear  at  his  heart,  and  the  vivid  colours  were 
blurred.  It  was  fifteen  years  since  he  had  seen  it,  and 
how  could  one  remember?  But  he  remembered.  He 
was  sure  he  remembered.  He  could  see  it  all  now  with 
his  eyes  shut.  The  valley  opening  out  from  Grange 
Con  bridge,  the  Owneybeg  winding  like  an  immense 
silvered  snake  through  the  green,  lush  plain,  with  Lis- 
geela  shrouded  in  a  golden  smoke  haze  huddled  up  within 
one  of  the  coils,  the  windows  of  the  Cathedral  throw- 
ing back  at  the  sun  a  brilliant  flame,  the  purple  heather 
on  the  near  hills,  the  deep  blue  of  the  mountains,  and  the 
brown  stretch  of  Looskey  bog.  And  the  mater  had  kept 
him  from  all  this,  and  now  he  was  a  Foreign  Office  clerk. 


136  Conquest 

He  laughed,  and  the  opal  sky  had  a  more  tender  look. 
She  was  the  best  mother  in  the  world,  and  he  had  had 
a  ripping  time.  His  grandfather  had  been  great  fun. 
How  he  had  fumed  and  groaned  on  the  first  journey;  and 
afterwards  hid  eagerness,  like  a  child's,  for  new  places. 
And  his  row  over  the  English  with  the  old  Garibaldian 
revolutionary,  with  whom  he  had  made  friends  at  Verona 
— "  the  great  lovers  of  freedom ! "  the  Garibaldian  shouted 
excitedly,  "and  their  great  leader  Sir  Palmerston,  the 
friend  of  man  and  of  Italy!"  It  was  in  vain  that  his 
grandfather  shouted  "Tyrants!"  and  "Bloody  Whigs!" 
for  old  Felice  shouted  him  down,  and  in  the  end  was 
convinced  that  he  was  an  Austrian  spy.  And  his  almost 
similar  experience  with  a  Czech  at  Prague.  But  it  had 
only  made  his  grandfather  believe  all  the  more  firmly  in 
the  depravity  of  the  English,  who  "scattered  the  gold 
they  squeezed  out  of  Ireland  like  dust  to  blind  the  eyes 
of  the  world  to  their  own  wickedness."  And  there  was 
the  irony  of  it  all,  which  only  grew  on  him  gradually, 
that  at  the  very  tables  at  which  his  grandfather  was 
thundering  against  England,  he  himself  was  picking 
up  languages  for  the  service  of  England.  And  how  he 
did  work — worked  harder,  he  saw  it  now,  in  the  holidays 
than  at  school  or  at  Oxford;  but  his  mother  had  made  it 
such  a  game.  Whether  it  was  a  ski  or  a  Slav  dialect  there 
was  no  slacking.  It  was  hard  work,  but  it  was  work  that 
was  always  play  with  those  wonderful  backgrounds — 
Naples  and  Sorrento  from  Capri,  Rome  from  any  of  the 
hills,  the  Black  Forest,  the  Rhone  Valley,  Aries  in  the 
moonlight,  the  choleric  face  of  the  old  colonel  on  the  deck 
of  the  steamer  going  up  to  Constantinople,  with  his  hand 
to  his  ear:  "Troy  did  you  say,  sir?  I  can  tell  you  even 
at  this  distance  that  it's  a  damned  bad  fort."  Win- 
chester was  work  and  his  fight  with  Bateson  and  those 
first  miserable  days  when  they  called  him  Mike — but  he 


Conquest  137 

had  fought  an  end  to  that.  And  Balliol  was  work  and 
the  boats  and  his  first  briar.  And  there  was  Uncle  Silas 
bobbing  in  and  out  everywhere — Uncle  Silas  who  was 
almost  English  but  just  wasn't.  And  there  were  friends, 
many  of  them.  Bateson  still,  though  he  would  bear  the 
mark  of  that  split  ear  through  life.  Such  friends,  too! 
They  wore  well,  though  Phipps  said,  "Oh,  Ireland,"  as 
if  it  were  a  cannibal  island.  Their  reserve  sat  somewhat 
consciously  on  them  and  sometimes  broke  out  in  shy, 
unexpected  enthusiasms  that  never  seemed  real.  They 
were  like  a  March  sun  with  moments  of  brilliant  heat — 
good  to  travel  with.  They  were  as  certain  of  discarded 
German  philosophies  as  they  were  of  England.  And 
they  were  still  more  certain  about  Ireland,  of  which  they 
never  tried  to  know  anything. 

A  white-coated  attendant  warned  him  that  dinner 
would  be  off  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  He  hurried  through 
a  meal.  It  was  absurd  how  anxious  he  was  to  get  across. 
The  long  wait  for  the  mails  at  Holyhead  would  be  dread- 
ful. He  was  sure  he  couldn't  sleep.  He  should  have 
taken  the  later  train.  He  nodded  over  a  book  in  his 
corner  seat.  It  was  some  sort  of  game  of  which  he  had 
lost  the  key,  this  taking  the  Greenore  train  for  the 
Kingstown  boat.  The  light  from  the  ceiling  made  a 
curious  pattern  on  the  moving  lips  and  beard  of  the  man 
opposite.  Voices  seemed  to  come  from  long  distances. 

"Carson  will  teach  'em." 

"Nothing  will  ever  teach  the  Irish." 

One  of  the  voices  was  the  man  opposite  talking  into  his 
beard,  and  there  was  a  grotesque  shadow  of  the  other. 
It  was  like  a  game  of  battledore  and  shuttlecock  played 
with  sharp,  staccato  words. 

"Not  a  foot  of  Ulster  soil,  I  say." 

"  If  we  can  keep  the  six  counties,  perhaps " 

"  No,  not  a  foot,  I  say.    We  must  have  the  nine." 


138  Conquest 

"There's  talk  of  only  four  counties." 

"I'm  loyal  to  my  King  and  the  Orange  flag,  but  if  the 
English  did  that  I'd  turn  machine-guns  on  'em." 

Jim  tried  to  rouse  himself.  They  were  Orangemen, 
and  the  point  of  view  might  be  interesting.  But  he 
nodded  again. 

"  The  country  is  going  to  the  dogs  in  any  case.  Devils 
of  Radicals — gave  a  judgeship  to  a  Nationalist  and  a 
papist.  One  couldn't  expect  justice  from  such  people." 
There  was  a  series  of  rumbles,  a  blank,  and  then : 

"Let  the  southern  Protestants  stew  in  their  own 
juice,  I  say.  They're  not  Protestants  at  all — no  back- 
bone in  'em,  a  weak-kneed,  milk-and-water  lot  of  givers- 
in." 

"Plunkett?  I  always  suspected  Plunkett.  No  man 
could  appear  to  be  so  reasonable  and  not  have  a  cloven 
hoof." 

"Ssh!" 

"Who  cares?    But  he's  asleep,  anyway." 

And  as  if  it  were  a  hypnotic  suggestion  he  fell  asleep. 
At  Crewe  the  sudden  stillness  of  a  stoppage  made  him 
hear  the  man  in  the  beard  profess  a  readiness  to  "die  in 
the  last  ditch."  At  Chester  the  shadow  had  become 
vehement  on  the  six-county  solution.  Ulster  had 
become  the  Key  of  Empire  in  the  Menai  tubular  bridge. 
A  harsh  shout  of  "Greenore  boat,  Greenore  boat,"  broke 
in  on  a  dream  in  which  Carson  and  Redmond,  their  arms 
about  one  another's  necks,  waving  unsteady  champagne 
glasses,  were  singing  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  "Orange 
and  Green  will  carry  the  day ! "  Jim  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
stared  wonderingly  at  his  two  companions,  who  stood, 
bags  in  hands,  and  apparently  very  angry,  waiting  for 
the  train  to  stop. 

" God  spews  the  lukewarm  out  of  His  mouth,"  the  man 
with  the  beard  muttered.  The  shadow,  who  was  a  mild 


Conquest  139 

man  turned  passionate,  said  heatedly,  but  with  an  effort 
at  sarcasm : 

"God  is  an  Orange  gentleman  and  not  a  bravo. " 

"You'll  rise  a  better  Orangeman  after  a  night's  rest, 
George,"  the  bearded  man  said  more  mildly. 

"  I  don't  want  more  than  the  six,  and  I'll  have  no  less  if 
I  slept  for  a  hundred  years,"  the  mild-looking  man  said  in 
a  determined  tone. 

When  the  train  stopped  both  turned  to  Jim  and  said 
pleasantly,  "Good-night,"  the  bearded  man  adding: 
"You  had  a  fine  sleep,  sir.  We  were  rather  wakeful,  but 
we  wiled  away  the  time  with  a  friendly  little  chat  over 
politics.  It'd  be  a  dreary  world  without  it." 

From  the  platform,  as  the  train  moved  off  towards  the 
Kingstown  boat,  Jim  heard  in  the  mild  man's  voice: 

"I'm  as  good  an  Orangeman  as  you  are,  Sam,  but  if 
every  drum  in  Ulster  was  banged  in  my  ears  I'll  not 
yield  on  the  six." 

Jim  lounged  about  the  empty  compartment,  examin- 
ing the  photographs  of  Irish  scenery.  Did  Englishmen 
ever  get  excited  over  politics?  In  a  way,  yes.  But 
calmly,  as  if  certain  of  their  assured  position  in  the  sun. 
He  regretted  that  he  had  not  listened  more  attentively. 
Prosperous  business  men,  he  decided,  and  they  discussed 
not  shop  but  politics  from  London  to  Holyhead.  His 
grandfather  was  the  same.  He  carried  Ireland  with  him 
everywhere,  sat  unmoved  amid  historic  monuments  and 
the  most  beautiful  scenery  in  Europe  till  he  came  across 
some  peasant  who  in  an  American  or  Cockney  accent 
revealed  another  Ireland,  generally  under  Austrian  rule. 
Then  only  did  the  place  live.  Was  it  something  in  his 
own  blood  that  made  him  somewhat  similar  ?  Made  him 
such  an  autochthonous  devil,  as  Phipps  said,  made  him 
take  the  history  school  after  Greats  because  history  might 
throw  some  light  on  Ireland?  What  was  history  but  a 


14°  Conquest 

record  of  prejudice?  One  got  from  it  what  one  brought 
to  it.  Froude  and  Lecky  were  to  him  handbooks  of 
revolution — Froude  only  made  the  facts  more  glaring  by 
his  bias.  Yet  Phipps  found  in  every  English  effort  salve 
for  the  marvellous  English  conscience — the  effulgent  sun 
shining  on  half  the  world  could  ignore  its  spots.  .  .  . 

He  asked  the  steward  to  call  him  when  land  was 
sighted;  and  it  seemed  that  he  had  only  turned  over  on 
his  pillow  when  he  heard : 

"Land,  sir,"  and  the  steward  was  standing  at  the  side 
of  the  berth,  with  tea  on  an  outstretched  tray. 

He  saw  Ireland  first  as  a  grey  trail  on  the  horizon, 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  soft  haze.  A  hill  or 
two  soon  stood  out  more  solidly.  He  tried  to  identify 
them.  No,  he  had  never  really  seen  them  before. 
Fifteen  years  ago  he  had  looked  at  them  from  the  deck 
of,  perhaps,  this  very  boat,  looking  back  then  instead  of 
forward,  but  he  hadn't  seen  them.  He  had  looked  as  an 
excuse  for  keeping  his  face  hidden  from  his  mother,  but 
everything  had  been  a  mere  blur.  All  the  more  as  his 
whole  attention  had  been  bent  on  the  effort,  not  quite 
successful,  of  keeping  the  tears  in  his  eyes  from  betraying 
themselves  in  his  voice. 

As  the  sun  rose  higher  out  of  the  sea  in  the  wake  of  the 
boat  the  thin  curtain  of  mist  seemed  to  waver  and  break. 
Suddenly  he  remembered  his  mother's  voice,  her  very 
words.  The  islands  were  Lambay  and  Ireland's  Eye, 
and  the  bold  headland  was  Howth.  The  smoke  smudge 
in  the  flat  was  Dublin.  Bray  Head  was  the  sentinel  on 
the  left.  The  blaze  of  glittering  light  between  was  the 
series  of  little  terraced  towns,  Dalkey,  Killiney,  Kings- 
town, Blackrock,  their  windows  reflecting  the  sun.  They 
danced — seemed  even  to  sing  from  sheer  joy  and  happi- 
ness. For  a  moment  he  had  a  choking  sensation  in  his 
throat,  a  mist  seemed  to  have  again  shut  out  the  light  and 


Conquest  14* 


colour.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  murmured  "pish," 
went  below,  and  busied  himself  with  his  luggage. 

A  fat  woman  blocked  his  way  to  the  gangway.  "  My 
heart  is  all  a-flutter,  ma'am,"  she  confided  to  a  dried-up 
little  woman  who  seemed  to  resent  the  confidence.  '"It's 
not  Margate  this  year,  Joan,  my  lass,'  my  'usband  says  to 
me.  'It's  Ireland,' he  said.  'If  you're  bent  on  a  foreign 
land,  John,'  I  said,  'why  not  make  it  Dieppe  where  the 
natives  aren't  more  savage  than  you  might  expect,  and 
the  sands'd  remind  you  of  Margate.'  Not  but  what 
John  himself  is  a  mild  man  nothing  wild  or  savage  in  his 
ways,  though  he  comes  from  Ireland.  'Tugging  at  his 
heartstrings,'  he  said  it  was  after  thirty-four  years,  and 
Ireland  it  had  to  be,  my  dear." 

On  the  quay  Jim  bought  an  Irish  Times  and  a  Free- 
man's Journal  with  a  feeling  that ' '  tugging  at  one's  heart- 
strings" was  not  a  far-fetched  image. 

"You've  both  sides  there,  your  honour,"  the  old  news- 
vendor  said,  "but  if  you  want  'em  more  bitter  here's  the 
Daily  Express  and  Sinn  Fein." 

Jim  was  satisfied  with  the  milder  brew  and  read  "The 
Blessings  of  British  Civilization"  in  one  paper,  and  "The 
Blight  of  English  Rule"  in  the  other,  as  the  train  jolted  to 
Westland  Road.  Instead  of  going  round  to  Kingsbridge 
by  the  loop-line,  on  the  advice  of  a  porter  he  took  an  out- 
side car  across  the  city  "to  enjoy  the  fresh  air."  Having 
crossed  the  lower  end  of  Stephen's  Green  the  driver 
plunged  through  a  network  of  rough  cobbled  streets, 
noisome,  with  dilapidated,  frowsy  houses  on  either  side. 
Jim  protested  against  the  route,  but  the  driver  explained 
with  a  grin:  "It's  the  way  I  always  take  the  English. 
Sure  it  does  'em  good." 

"I'm  not  English." 

"  Hear  that  now,"  the  driver  said,  unconvinced.  "It's 
making  fun  of  me  your  honour  is." 


142  Conquest 

"No." 

' '  It's,  maybe,  one  of  them  Liberals  you  are  that's  promis- 
ing us  some  sort  of  Home  Rule,  devil's  skewer  to  it." 

"I'm  Irish." 

"Sure  it's  tired  your  honour  must  be  then  of  seeing 
Trinity  and  the  Bank,"  the  driver  said  lightly.  "And 
the  air  of  the  Liffey  is  a  bit  heavy  on  tender  nostrils  at 
this  time  of  the  morning  and  the  tide  out.  Sure  there's 
no  loss  on  this  way  at  all,  and  I'll  take  you  through 
Francis  Street  where  the  gentry  used  to  live  in  the  old 
times." 

It  was  Naples  from  Ischia,  of  which,  Jim  decided,  the 
view  from  the  boat  had  dimly  reminded  him.  And  these 
foul  streets  were  like  the  back  streets  of  Naples  over 
which  the  dead  hand  of  the  Bourbons  still  lingered,  only 
less  dignified. 

"It's  the  fine  houses  them  used  to  be  before  the 
Union,"  the  driver  said  tentatively. 

"Indeed,"  Jim  said. 

"I  once  drove  Sir  Edward  Carson  himself  in  this 
very  car,"  the  driver  said,  making  another  effort. 

"You've  got  a  good  horse,"  Jim  said. 

The  driver's  face  brightened  hopefully.  "But  sure  it's 
John  Redmond  is  the  flahool  man.  It's  never  less  than  a 
two-shilling  piece  he  ever  proffered  me  for  a  drive  within 
the  boundary.  And  more  than  once  it  was  half-a-crown 
itself,  and  he  maybe  only  going  from  Westland  Row  to  his 
own  house  in  Leeson  Park." 

But  Jim  was  again  thinking  of  Scarty  and  made  no  re- 
sponse. The  driver  whipped  up  his  horse  with  a  despair- 
ing murmur,  "There'd  be  more  foolish  talk  in  him  if  he 
was  English.  But  sorra  one  of  me's  sure  what  side  he's 
on  and  it's  seldom  it  failed  me.  He's  that  dark  he's  not 
unlike  one  of  them  Orangemen  I'd  sometimes  be  driving 
to  Amiens  Street." 


Conquest  143 

He  softened,  however,  under  the  tip,  and  said 
fervently,  "God  put  your  honour  on  the  right  road  any- 
way, though  it's  there  you  are  already,  maybe,  with  the 
help  of  God." 

The  train  flew  swiftly  along  the  wooded  river  valley 
and  was  well  out  on  the  rolling  plain  of  Kildare  by  the 
time  Jim  had  finished  breakfast.  The  names  of  stations 
as  they  seemed  to  fly  past  awakened  half-forgotten 
memories:  Leixlip,  where  the  bitter- tongued  Jennings 
sister  congratulated  James  Stuart  on  having  won  the 
race  when  he  complained  that  the  Irish  had  run  away; 
"the  Curragh  of  Kildare,  the  boys  will  all  be  there,  with 
their  pikes  in  good  repair ' ' ;  Silken  Thomas.  There  was  a 
thrill  even  in  seeing  names  of  places  he  had  heard  so 
much  of.  He  opened  a  map  and  traced  out  the  familiar 
names.  They  seemed  to  be  part  of  him — to  live  in  his 
memory. 

"It's  your  first  visit,  sir,"  his  one  companion  in  the 
compartment,  a  florid-faced  man  of  about  fifty,  who  had 
for  some  time  been  fidgeting  with  his  newspaper,  said 
pleasantly. 

"In  away,  yes." 

"  Not  a  fellow  official  by  any  chance?  I  belong  to  the 
Land  Commission." 

"I  suppose  I  am  an  official — a  novice  though,  and  I've 
shed  it  all  for  two  months.  Not  an  Irish  official ;  I  come 
from  London,"  Jim  said,  with  an  effort  to  anticipate  some 
of  the  questions  he  saw  coming. 

"I  knew  it.  You  worried  me  a  bit  at  first.  He  has  the 
cut  of  one  of  us,  I  said  to  myself.  But  the  moment  you 
spoke  I  saw  you  were  English.  My  name  is  Jackson.  I 
know  most  of  the  men  from  the  other  Departments  and 
couldn't  place  you.  Of  course  new  men  bob  up  every 
day  now,  thick  as  blackberries,  but  you're  not  exactly 
the  type — queer  lot  some  of  'em.  We  can  breathe  here 


144  Conquest 

to-day,  but  as  a  rule  we  fill  the  first-class  carriages.  Last 
night  there  were  twelve  passengers  in  the  saloon  carriage 
coming  up — eleven  of  'em  Government  officials,  and  the 
twelfth  doubtful.  The  railway  companies  ought  to  pay 
us  a  heavy  commission  for  swelling  their  dividends.  Ton 
my  soul,  though,  some  of  these  new  fellows  should  be 
made  to  travel  third.  God  be  with  the  good  old  days 
when  all  Irish  officials  belonged  to  our  class.  But 
nowadays  I  expect  one  of  'em  at  any  moment  to  spit  on 
the  floor.  It's  a  serious  state  of  affairs,  but  what  can 
you  expect  with  a  Liberal  Government?  I've  two  sons 
growing  up  myself,  and  they'll  probably  have  to  go  to  the 
colonies.  You  have  to  pass  examinations  for  the  Civil 
Service  in  England  I  suppose?" 

"As  a  rule,  I  believe,"  Jim  said. 

"That's  the  devil  of  it,"  Jackson  said  gloomily.  "Just 
like  a  second-class  clerk  here.  And  my  boys  weren't 
brought  up  to  it.  Any  decent  Government  would 
recognize  the  people  who  have  a  claim.  My  family  have 
filled  responsible  positions  in  Ireland  for  two  generations 
— got  a  job  for  the  asking,  I  might  say.  No  damned 
examinations — it  ran  in  their  blood.  Set  them  down 
anywhere  in  a  job  with  any  decent  sort  of  screw — it 
didn't  matter  what  position — Clerk  of  the  Peace,  Secre- 
tary to  a  Grand  Jury,  Resident  Magistrate,  Local 
Government  Inspector,  a  commissionership  or  the  like — 
they  drew  their  pay  with  credit  to  themselves  and  to 
England.  But  to-day — with  so  many  new  jobs  going, 
too — my  dear  sir,  it's  enough  to  make  a  loyalist  sick. 
And  to  think  what  we've  done  for  this  damned  country. 
But,  please  God,  we'll  have  a  Tory  Government  back  again 
some  day.  Though  even  they're  not  what  they  were," 
he  added  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  Going  far,  sir  ? " 

"Lisgeela." 

"You're  a  lucky  man.     I'd  rather  my  work'd  bring  me 


Conquest  H5 

there  than  to  any  other  part  of  the  country,  though  I 
manage  to  pick  up  a  day's  fishing  in  most  places.  You 
have  a  rod,  I  see.  An  Owneybeg  salmon,  sir,  is  some- 
thing to  remember.  Nothing  like  'em  on  the  Breedeen, 
where  I'm  dividing  land  to-day,  but  a  Breedeen  salmon 
isn't  bad,  either,  and  I  may  get  a  few  even  in  weather  like 
this.  I'm  getting  out  here.  It's  been  very  pleasant 
meeting  you.  Who  knows  but  I  may  come  across  you 
some  day  in  Lisgeela.  We've  some  trouble  down  there. 
Oh,  no,  not  with  the  salmon,  thank  God,"  he  added  with 
a  laugh,  in  reply  to  Jim's  inquiring  glance.  "Only  over 
land.  The  Scovell  estate.  The  sale  is  held  up  by  an  old 
agitator  with  one  leg  in  the  grave.  I'm  sorry  for  Scovell, 
of  course,  but  if  those  things  must  happen,  let  it  be  near 
a  good  salmon  river  I  pray.  And  there  are  worse  hotels 
than  the  Daly  Arms.  You  change  at  Ballybawn.  A 
pleasant  journey  to  you." 

He  waved  a  friendly  hand  from  the  platform.  Jim 
remembered  Phipps  and  his  jibes,  and  laughed  as  the 
train  moved  off.  All  Irishmen  were  autochthonous. 
There  were  no  such  differences  between  Irishmen  of  any 
class  or  creed  as  between  Irishmen  and  Englishmen. 
Uncle  Silas  and  this  Jackson  were  so  like  Susan  Roche. 
Even  the  Orangemen  in  the  boat  train  had  more  in  com- 
mon with  the  Catholic  peasant  than  with  Phipps  or  the 
average  Englishman.  And  he  himself  felt  at  home  with 
the  jarvey.  What  made  the  Irish-English  Irish  and  not 
English?  Climate,  propinquity,  the  inevitable  mixture 
of  race  behind  the  other  influences?  The  two-nation 
theory  was  a  body.  Catholic  and  Protestant  in  Ulster 
were,  racially,  as  like  as  two  peas.  Many  of  the  most 
violent  Orangemen  were  Irish  Celts,  once  Catholic,  now 
Protestant.  The  others,  Scotch-Irish  and  English,  had 
become  North-Irish  Celts  in  temperament.  Wealth  was 
no  key  to  the  problem.  Protestants  everywhere  in 


146  Conquest 

Ireland  were  no  more  industrious  than  Catholics.  In 
Rathvalley  glen  Catholic  peasants  tilled  a  barren  hillside 
with  an  industry  unsurpassed  by  the  hardest  workers 
in  Europe.  Neither  history  nor  biology  was  responsible 
for  the  myth  of  the  Protestant  industrious  apprentice. 
It  grew  entirely  from  the  vanity  of  a  privileged  class. 
Privilege  gave  the  Protestant  in  Ireland  power  and  posi- 
tion, but  it  flattered  him  to  attribute  his  superiority  to 
virtues  of  character  and  race.  Protestants  had  got  all 
the  best  land :  Catholics  were  driven  on  to  the  waste  lands 
and  bogs  to  starve  or  live  as  best  they  could.  Protest- 
ants had  been  protected  in  their  prosperity;  Catholics 
harassed  in  their  pitiful  struggle  for  life  by  every  ingen- 
ious device  of  oppression.  .  .  .  Even  the  industries  of 
the  North  were  only  a  happy  accident. 

The  rolling  grass  lands  had  become  stained  here  and 
there  with  patches  of  brown.  The  vivid  green  now  gave 
way  altogether  to  dingy  tracts  of  low-lying  arable  which 
were  soon  lost  in  the  golden  brown  of  an  immense  stretch 
of  bog-land.  The  train  drew  up  at  Ballybawn  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  bog. 

"Ballybawn,  Ballybawn.  Change  here  for  Droosky 
and  all  stations  on  the  Droosky  line.  Be  careful  that  you 
don't  lose  yourselves.  The  first  train  doesn't  stop  any- 
where at  all.  The  next  train  pulls  up  everywhere,"  a 
porter  bawled  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"The  express  surely  stops  at  Droosky?"  an  excited 
tourist  asked. 

"Amn't  I  after  telling  you  it  does,"  the  porter  said, 
scratching  his  head.  "Is  it  into  the  Atlantic  it'd  go? 
Though  it  does  that  same  an  odd  time  when  Tim  Clancy, 
the  driver,  has  a  drop  of  drink  in  him.  But  sure  the  salt 
water  never  gives  any  one  a  cold.  It  cheers  'em  up,  the 
poor  creatures,"  he  added  confidentially  to  Jim  as  he  col- 
lected his  luggage.  "They  expect  something  after  their 


Conquest  H7 

long  journey,  maybe  from  Manchester  or  Birmingham, 
and  it's  little  in  the  way  of  entertainment  there  is  to  offer 
them.  Sure  the  people  can't  be  always  shooting  land- 
lords to  please  'em,  and  I'm  worn  out  inventing  outrages. 
Not  but  what  Tim  Clancy'd  have  my  life  if  he  heard  that 
I  put  the  name  of  the  drink  on  him,  and  he  one  of  them 
teetotal  cranks.  Well  now,  just  think  of  that,"  he  went 
on,  gazing  abstractedly  at  an  incoming  train.  "If  that 
isn't  the  slow  train  after  beating  out  the  express.  It's 
sorry  I  am  to  discommode  your  honour,  but  you  must 
run  for  it." 

Jim  and  his  luggage,  amid  the  excitement  of  station- 
master,  guard,  and  several  porters,  were  bundled  into  a 
compartment,  empty  but  for  one  passenger.  His  porter 
hung  on  to  the  footboard  as  the  train  moved  off. 

"Left  behind  you'd  be,"  he  explained,  "only  I  told  the 
guard  that  you  were  the  son  of  the  chairman  of  the  line. 
It's  making  a  record  he  is  to-day,  and  he  only  ten  minutes 
late,  and  he's  trying  to  keep  it  up.  The  top  of  the  morn- 
ing to  you,  miss.  Sure  I  didn't  see  you,  and  you  hid 
there  behind  the  paper.  Old  Ireland  for  ever,  and  more 
power  to  your  silver  tongue.  'Tis  you  that's  able  to  put 
the  fear  o'  God  into  the  Sassenachs." 

Jim's  eyes  met  the  woman's  eyes  for  a  moment — blue, 
of  an  infinite  depth,  calm,  slightly  mocking,  half  ques- 
tioning, half  condemnatory.  He  was  being  judged  and 
condemned.  But  for  what  ? 

"  I  fear  he  has  thrown  my  things  on  some  of  yours,"  he 
said,  lifting  a  bag  on  to  the  rack. 

"The  English  possess  the  land,"  she  said  with  what  she 
may  have  meant  for  contempt.  The  slight  curl  of  the 
short  upper  lip  disclosed  pearly  teeth.  It  was  as  if  a  rose 
expanded  for  a  moment  and  showed  the  white  at  the 
centre.  She  lowered  her  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  her 
newspaper.  He  took  his  seat  in  the  corner  diagonally 


148  Conquest 

opposite.  The  porter  was  wrong  about  her  tongue. 
Silver  was  too  sharp  and  tinkling  for  such  charm  of  sound. 
There  was  gold  in  the  hair  under  the  boat-shaped  hat  that 
accentuated  the  slight  tilt  in  her  nose,  the  curve  of  the 
upper  lip,  and  the  firm  rounded  chin;  gold  in  the  few 
freckles  which  she  seemed  to  wear  for  effect,  as  eight- 
eenth century  beauties  wore  patches,  on  the  cool  ivory 
tan  of  her  face.  It  was  not  tan  at  all.  It  was  some 
miracle  of  the  sun  that  preserved  all  the  warmth  beneath. 
The  blue  in  her  hat,  and  of  the  linen  coat  and  skirt,  fitted 
to  her  figure,  was  a  vivid  splash  of  colour  against  the 
brown  of  the  bog.  Autochthonous,  too?  What  had 
such  radiant  beauty  to  do  with  politics?  What  a  won- 
derful effect  the  long  curled  eyelashes  had  on  her  face. 

"The  winds  blow  politics  in  Ireland,"  he  said 
maliciously. 

"They  sing  liberty  to  slaves,"  she  said,  letting  the 
paper  fall  on  her  knees. 

"  I  haven't  seen  any,"  he  said  with  an  effort  to  conceal 
his  admiration. 

"  The  English  see  nothing  anywhere  but  the  perfection 
of  their  own  rule,"  she  said  demurely. 

An  obvious  retort  tempted  him,  but  he  left  it  unsaid. 
It  would,  at  least,  be  premature.  So,  he  was  English 
again.  He  would  be  a  Turk  or  a  Hottentot  if  it  only 
made  her  talk. 

1 '  Slaves  ? "  he  said  meditatively.  ' '  Since  I ' ve  left  Lon- 
don I've  met  an  Orangeman  who  hypothetically  cursed 
England,  a  newsvendor  who  sold  me  the  newspapers  he 
thought  good  for  me,  a  jarvey  who  drove  me  where  I 
didn't  want  to  go,  a  masterly  railway  porter " 

"And  a  Sinn  Feiner  whom  you  English  put  in  jail,"  she 
said  proudly. 

"You?"  he  said  incredulously. 

44 Me,"  she  nodded.     "I  bashed  a  policeman  of  course. 


Conquest  149 

But  then  he  shouldn't  have  tried  to  arrest  me.  All  I 
said  was  that  no  nation  on  earth  touched  the  English  for 
hypocrisy  and  perjury." 

There  was  fire  now  in  the  blue  depths  of  her  eyes.  How 
any  policeman  could  have  arrested  her!  But  that  Irish 
policeman  was  clever.  He  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
bashed  by  her  and  of  bearing  her  off  to  the  lock-up.  In- 
dignation made  her  the  more  irresistible.  If  he  could 
only  keep  that  look  on  her  face. 

"Rather  hard  on  a  Government  that's  doing  its  best 
to  pass  Home  Rule,"  he  said  with  a  judicial  air. 

"A  Liberal? "  she  murmured  with  a  look,  and  in  a  tone 
that  seemed  to  lay  him  bare  as  some  vile  thing  on  a  dis- 
secting table.  "Thank  God  the  Sinn  Feiners  aren't 
hypnotized  like  Redmond  and  his  people.  We  know 
what  the  word  of  Englishmen  is  worth.  They  promise 
freely  enough  when  they  are  in  difficulties  and  then  edge 
out  of  performance." 

"The  Land  Act?" 

"They  fatten  their  slaves  in  order  to  tax  them  higher." 

"Can  nothing  good  come  out  of  England?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  said  vehemently.  "  I  trust  the  Liber- 
als even  less  than  I  trust  the  Tories.  The  Tories  hate  us, 
but  the  Liberals  patronize  us.  I  prefer  hate  to  patron- 
age. One  would  think  we  were  naughty  children  or 
slaves." 

"But  you  said  you  are  slaves." 

"No  doubt  you  think  we  are,"  she  said  with  a  regal  in- 
difference, again  taking  up  her  newspaper. 

He  took  out  a  book  and  tried  to  read,  but  found  himself 
looking  at  her  again.  Two  parsons,  one  a  dean,  got  in 
at  Ballyvore.  She  nodded  to  both  coldly,  but  the  dean 
insisted  on  shaking  hands,  saying  with  a  laugh : 

"My  dear  lady,  though  you  have  been  in  jail  you 
mustn't  be  too  proud.  I  christened  you,  you  know. 


150  Conquest 

When  the  evil  day  comes  you'll  give  me  warning,  or 
sprinkle  my  doorposts,  or  whatever  the  republican  way 
of  exempting  one  from  destruction  is?" 

His  companion  said  "Humph." 

The  dean  laughed.  "Lefroy  comes  from  the  North 
and  takes  these  things  seriously.  We  know  bet- 
ter," he  said  with  a  smile  at  the  now  indignant  young 
woman. 

"Mr.  Facing-both-ways,"  she  said  impudently. 

"A  good  definition  of  Mr.  Dean,"  the  dean  said  lightly. 
"Lefroy  would  agree  with  you  there.  A  dean  is  a  ridicu- 
lous person,  stoned  at  once  by  the  bishop  and  the  chapter. 
But  then,  I  control  the  structure.  Don't  force  me  to  fly 
the  republican  flag,"  he  said  in  mock  horror. 

' '  I  shall  send  you  one.  Who  knows  how  soon  you  may 
need  it,"  she  said  with  a  malicious  glance  at  the  horror- 
stricken  Lefroy. 

"  The  .Union  Jack  is  the  emblem  of  our  King  and  coun- 
try," Lefroy  said  indignantly. 

"I  always  thought  it  was  the  Orange  party  rag,"  she 
said  innocently. 

"Lefroy  dots  all  his  i's,"  the  dean  said  suavely.  "But 
how  are  your  good  father  and  most  excellent  mother? 
Not  exactly  approving,  eh?" 

"A  state  of  truce  with  me,  but  otherwise  as  obstinate 
as  ever." 

"The  tenants  haven't  given  in?  Your  influence  in 
that  direction  would  be  most  meritorious." 

"  I  stopped  'em  painting  the  cattle  green — it  was  cruel 
to  the  animals,  as  they  licked  the  paint  and  it  made  'em  ill. 
But  dad  must  fight  his  own  land  battles.  He  ought  to  be 
grateful  that  I  don't  take  to  the  platform  against  him. 
But  it  would  make  things  a  little  more  strained  at  home, 
and  my  friends  are  tolerant  and  don't  expect  it.  I  did 
advise  them,"  with  a  smile  at  Lefroy,  "to  practise  some 


Conquest 


of  the  Orange  virtues.  'No  Surrender'  had  immense 
success." 

Lefroy  seemed  to  threaten  apoplexy.  His  lips  worked 
painfully.  Before  he  could  find  expression  for  his  deep 
feeling  the  dean  interfered  gently. 

"But  you'll  excuse  us,  my  dear  lady;  I  promised  Lefroy 
to  discuss  with  him  matters  in  connection  with  the  Sus- 
tentation  Fund." 

The  girl  again  took  up  her  paper.  Once  when  he 
looked  at  her  Jim  caught  her  eyes  fixed  on  him.  She 
turned  over  the  paper  impatiently  and  frowned.  There 
was  something  vaguely  familiar  about  the  frown,  some- 
thing about  the  set  of  her  eyebrows  and  the  rather  petu- 
lant lips  that  recalled  some  memory.  Had  he  ever  seen 
her  before?  He  shut  his  eyes  and  tried  to  remember. 
Scraps  of  the  parsons'  conversation  reached  him.  The 
dean  severely,  "My  dear  fellow,  one  must  live.  What 
if  the  man  is  broke?  You  won't  get  your  full  contribu- 
tion from  the  fund  otherwise.  Fifty  pounds  you  say? 
Keep  his  name  down  by  all  means.  It's  done  every  day. " 

A  hoarse  whisper  from  Lefroy.  "Do  you  think  she'll 
become  a  pervert  in  religion  as  well  as  in  loyalty?" 

The  train  slowed  down.  "It's  been  delightful  to  have 
this  pleasure,  Miss  Diana,"  the  dean  said  effusively. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Scovell,"  Lefroy  said  heavily. 
"  May  God  direct  you." 

"I'm  blessed,"  Jim  murmured  under  his  breath. 
"She— and  a  rebel." 

Ill 

Jim  forgot  his  luggage  in  watching  her  progress  down 
the  platform.  The  only  two  porters  were  in  smiling 
attendance.  A  smiling  stationmaster,  cap  in  hand,  hung 
by  her  side.  Passengers,  taking  the  train  for  Droosky, 


i52  Conquest 

waited  by  the  doors  to  salute  and  smile  as  she  passed. 
A  one-legged  beggar,  supporting  himself  against  a  lamp- 
post, called  out,  with  a  magnificent  sweep  of  his  battered 
hat,  "More  power  to  you,  Miss  Diana."  A  grim, 
bearded  man,  who  had  smiled  and  saluted  with  the 
others,  asked,  "Miss  Diana  who?" 

"  Miss  Diana,  of  course.  Sure  the  whole  world  knows 
her — Miss  Diana  Scovell,"  a  frieze-coated  young  farmer 
said  in  a  tone  of  wondering  contempt,  his  eyes  glowing. 

"Her?"  the  bearded  man  said,  with  a  condemnatory 
frown. 

"Have  you  anything  to  say  agin  her?"  the  farmer 
asked  aggressively. 

"No,  no,"  the  bearded  man  said  hastily.  "She's  a 
most  attractive  young  lady." 

"It's  well  for  you,"  the  young  man  said  in  a  dis- 
appointed tone.  "There's  many  a  man  in  the  town  of 
Lisgeela'd  have  hit  you  at  once  for  putting  that  face  on 
you,"  he  added,  as  if  regretting  his  own  moderation. 

"Your  luggage,  I  think,  sir?"  the  dean  said  with  a 
tolerant  smile.  "There's  not  much  use  waiting  for  a 
porter,  with  Miss  Diana  about.  Since  she's  been  to  jail 
she's  become  a  sort  of  royal  personage — the  local  Joan  of 
Arc." 

"She's  very  beautiful,"  Jim  said. 

"That,  too,  of  course,"  the  dean  said  with  ironic 
suavity,  helping  with  the  luggage. 

The  train  moved  off.  Jim,  standing  beside  his 
luggage,  again  sought  the  lissom  blue  figure.  She  was 
standing  by  the  booking-office  door  talking,  with  a  flushed 
eager  face,  to  a  tall,  thin,  white-haired  priest,  her  atten- 
dants, now  increased  by  all  the  station  loungers,  hanging 
back  in  a  smiling  half  circle.  A  dull  cloud  obscured  the 
sun,  but  her  vivid  face  seemed  to  radiate  its  brightness 
not  only  on  the  group  of  people  around  her,  but  on  the 


Conquest  153 

dingy  station  buildings — transfigured  them,  Jim  thought. 
She  looked  towards  him  for  a  moment.  The  priest  turned 
round  and  stared  at  him.  The  stationmaster  took  a  bag 
from  one  of  the  porters,  who  started  towards  Jim  with  a 
run. 

"Sure  if  we  only  knew  it  was  you,  it's  not  left  standing 
like  this  you'd  jpe,"  he  said,  seizing  a  luggage  truck  and 
pulling  it  towards  Jim  by  one  handle.  "Sure  it's  hard  to 
have  an  eye  for  any  one  but  Miss  Diana,  may  God  bless 
her,  Protestant  and  all.  Though  it's  loth  she'd  be  herself 
to  leave  Pierce  Daly's  grandson  stranded  high  and  dry  on 
the  platform  without  any  one  to  carry  his  bags.  'It's  to 
meet  Mr.  Jim  Daly  I  came,'  says  Father  Lysaght  after 
talking  about  this  and  that.  'Then  it's  him  I  must  have 
come  down  with,'  Miss  Diana  says,  flustered  like. 
'Gimme  them  things,  Davie  Mulcahy,  and  run  for  your 
life,'  says  Mr.  Duffy  the  stationmaster,  and  off  I  hopped 
like  a  hare.  Sure  you  must  remember  me,  Mr.  Jim? 
'Tis  often  you  let  drive  at  me  with  a  switch  and  I  hoosh- 
ing  after  your  pony  down  the  Tubber  road,  and  you 
coming  in  and  out  to  school  at  the  college — Davie 
Mulcahy." 

"Perfectly,"  Jim  said  with  decision,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  blue  figure  now  disappearing  through  the  station 
door. 

He  sighed  and  looked  at  the  porter  who  was  grinning 
broadly,  his  white  teeth  gleaming  against  a  freckled  face 
almost  as  red  as  the  shock  of  hair  protruding  from  under 
his  cap  in  front. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  Jim  said  struggling  with  a 
memory.  "Davie  Mulcahy."  It  was  not  the  name  he 
remembered,  but  the  mischievous  eyes  and  the  freckles 
and  the  carrot  hair.  It  all  came  back  in  a  flash. 

"It  was  you  who  frightened  Crabbit  into  Spillane's 
shop,"  he  laughed. 


154  Conquest 

"The  very  one — and  him  trampling  the  baskets  of 
potatoes  and  apples  and  the  like  all  round  the  floor;  and 
Mr.  Spillane,  God  rest  his  soul,  raging  like  a  lion,  and  you 
following  me  down  the  road  at  full  gallop  as  mad  as  a 
hatter,  till  I  legged  it  over  the  wall  into  Mick  Tracey's 
garden.  It  was  great  entirely — and  my  mother  leather- 
ing me  when  I  got  home  for  leaving  the  seat  of  my 
breeches  atop  of  the  wall,"  Mulcahy  said  delightedly. 

"Hullo,  Jim.     Do  you  know  me,  boy?" 

"I'd  know  your  voice  anywhere,  Father  James,"  Jim 
said,  turning  round  and  taking  the  priest's  outstretched 
hand.  "You  haven't  changed  in  the  least." 

"You  won't  see  my  grey  hairs,  and  you  can't  see  my 
rheumatism.  Well,  well,  to  think  that  this  giant  of  a 
man  is  Jim.  I  never  felt  old  till  this  minute.  I  used  to 
pat  your  head  almost  without  lifting  my  arm,  and  now  I 
have  to  look  up  at  you, ' '  the  priest  said  huskily.  ' '  Hurry 
with  the  things  on  to  my  car,  Mulcahy.  I'm  coming 
with  you,  Jim." 

As  they  drove  through  the  town  Jim  tried  to  adjust 
his  memory  to  what  he  saw.  Lisgeela  seemed  to  have 
shrunk  and  grown  shabbier.  Tawdry  new  buildings 
emphasized  the  meanness  of  the  old.  In  the  main  street 
a  glaring  red-brick  bank  made  an  ugly  blotch  of  colour 
against  the  softer  pinks  and  greys  and  drabs  of  the  older 
houses.  The  new  plate  glass  and  mahogany  shop-front 
of  Mallon's  made  the  house  behind  it  the  more  dingy. 
Andrews'  confectionery  gave  him  a  shock — was  his 
memory  of  the  cakes  as  unreal  as  his  memory  of  the  shop  ? 
The  new  convent  vied  in  ugliness  with  the  lunatic  asylum 
and  the  new  Presbytery  with  Delaney's  terra-cotta  pub, 
which  might  have  been  designed  by  the  owner  in  a  fit  of 
delirium  tremens. 

"And  that?"  Jim  asked,  pointing  to  a  pile  of  gimcrack 
villa  Gothic. 


Conquest  i55 

"The  new  college,"  Father  Lysaght  said.  "The 
bishop  is  letting  himself  go  in  stone  and  mortar." 

1 '  I  suppose  it's  progress , ' '  Jim  said  wryly. 

"When  they  made  Macdonald  aMonsignorhe  wasn't 
satisfied  till  he  got  a  new  college,"  the  priest  said  with  a 
shrug.  "He  has  a  couple  of  priests  helping  him  now  to 
do  nothing — professors  they  call  'em." 

The  Tubber  Road,  a  draggled  streamer  of  grass-grown, 
rotting  thatch  and  green,  slimy  walls,  trailed  off  into  the 
plain. 

"The  Church  seems  to  have  the  best  of  it,"  Jim  said 
with  a  laugh.  "  My  grandfather  used  to  be  pretty  hard 
on  you  for  screwing  the  people  so  much." 

"Since  Deehan  missed  the  Archbishopric  he's  grown 
more  Nationalist,"  the  priest  said  meditatively.  "  It  an- 
noys the  Government  and  the  Vatican,  no  doubt,  but  he 
has  given  up  expecting  anything  more  from  them.  He's 
all  for  pleasing  the  people  now — within  limits — and  they 
let  him  have  his  fling.  He  helps  them  a  little  with  Home 
Rule  and  they  give  him  a  plaything  or  two." 

"The  Church  hasn't  much  in  common  with  democ- 
racy," Jim  said. 

"Sorramuch." 

"Does  Deehan  really  want  Home  Rule?" 

"I'm  no  good  at  conundrums,"  Father  Lysaght  said 
drily.  "He  mayn't  have  much  fear  of  Home  Rule 
coming,  or  he  may  be  a  better  Irishman  than  he's  a 
churchman  in  his  old  age.  Even  a  bishop,  Jim,  is  a  man 
first  and  last,  and  it's  hard  to  plumb  any  man's  heart." 

Jim  lost  all  interest  in  the  bishop  at  the  sight  of  thin 
spirals  of  smoke  ascending  through  the  trees  ahead — 
beech  and  oak  and  elm  and  the  two  black  cedars  on  the 
lawn,  and  the  giant  fir  near  the  garden  gate.  For  a 
moment  there  was  a  white  gleam  through  the  thick 
leaves;  then  chimney  flues  and  a  strip  of  brown  thatch. 


156  Conquest 

At  last,  with  an  ache  at  his  heart  he  saw  the  house,  with 
masses  of  late  crimson  roses  and  purple  clematis  glow- 
ing against  the  white  of  the  walls.  The  juniper  hedge 
glistening  in  the  sun,  a  solitary  bird  note,  the  drowsy 
hum  of  bees,  brilliant  red  admirals  and  peacocks  flitting 
over  the  cool  green  of  the  sward  or  adding  to  the  blaze  of 
colour  in  the  beds,  the  deep  shadows  under  the  trees,  the 
gleam  of  the  river  beyond,  reproduced  a  memory  he  had 
carried  with  him  in  all  his  wanderings  for  fifteen  years. 
Everything  was  the  same,  except  the  drive  to  the  stable 
which  was  no  longer  grass-grown.  The  scene  absorbed 
him,  yet  when  he  spoke  it  was  of  nothing  in  his  conscious 
thoughts : 

"It's  odd  about  the  Scovell  girl  being  a  Nationalist." 

"She's  a  fine  girl,  Miss  Diana,"  Father  Lysaght  said, 
urging  the  horse  up  the  slight  incline  to  the  gate. 
"What's  odd  about  it?  Isn't  she  an  Irishwoman? 
There's  Tom  Durkan  holding  the  gate  open;  he  wasn't 
herein  your  time." 

"I've  heard  all  about  him  from  my  grandfather,"  Jim 
said  with  a  smile. 

"You  would,"  the  priest  said  grimly.  "He  keeps  Tom 
as  much  in  order  as  he  does  the  League.  Not  a  leaf  must 
be  changed  from  how  you  left  it.  You  must  be  very 
nice  to  your  grandfather,  Jim,"  he  added  gravely. 
"He's  a  bit  hurt  about  you  going  into  the  Foreign 
Office." 

"It's  rather  a  good  joke,"  Jim  said  lightly. 

"I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  take  it  as  a  joke.     He " 

"A  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  Mr.  Jim,"  from 
Durkan,  cut  short  the  priest's  explanation. 

A  trim  parlourmaid  standing  in  the  porch  was  violently 
pushed  aside,  and  Susan  Roche,  fat,  florid,  and  unwieldly, 
rushed  out  excitedly.  Jim  jumped  off  the  car  and  held 
out  his  hand.  She  gazed  at  him  bewildered,  her  mouth 


Conquest  157 

wide  open,  then  seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it  several 
times. 

"Sure  it's  the  breath  you  took  out  of  me  for  a  minute," 
she  said  joyfully,  "and  me  expecting  the  gossoon  I  sent 
away.  Did  you  ever  see  a  finer  figure  of  a  man,  Father 
James,  agra?  But  sure  it's  signs  on  him  and  he  always 
giving  the  promise  of  it.  Here  I  am  myself,  just  the  same 
as  you  left  me,"  she  laughed,  generously  ignoring  an 
additional  four  stone  of  superabundant  flesh,  "and  with 
all  the  changes  about  the  place,  sure  you're  the  biggest  of 
'em  all  yourself.  I'll  be  bound  you  won't  find  the  place 
any  cleaner,  and  we  having  a  parlourmaid  and  a  house- 
maid no  less  this  many  a  year  to  help  others  to  dirty  it. 
God  be  with  the  good  old  times  when  I  hadn't  to  clean 
up  after  them.  It's  a  favour  you'd  think  the  mistress 
was  proffering  me  when  she  brought  them  into  the  house 
with  their  caps  and  aprons  and  all ;  a  heart  scald  they  are 
to  me  day  and  night.  And  Tom  Durkan  doing  the  boots 
and  knives  the  way  I'd  be  ashamed  of  doing  'em  in  my 
sleep." 

Father  Lysaght,  with  an  impatient  shrug,  entered  the 
porch.  Jim  made  a  movement  to  follow,  but  Susan  put 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Let  him  go,  alannah,"  she 
whispered  with  an  elaborate  screwing  of  her  lips  and  eyes. 
"  Sure  I  was  only  marking  time,  till  I  made  his  reverence 
tired  of  my  old  talk.  'Tis  a  private  word  I  wanted  all 
along  to  have  with  yourself  alone.  Run  away  now, 
Peggy,  like  a  good  girl,  and  be  helping  Tom  Durkan  to 
bring  in  them  bits  of  things." 

She  waited  till  the  parlourmaid  had  disappeared  with 
a  bag.  "It's  hoarse  in  the  throat  I'm  making  myself, 
talking  to  your  mother  about  it,"  she  said  in  an  earnest 
whisper.  "But  sorra'd  one  of  her'd  budge  an  inch.  It's 
not  common  sense,  she'd  say,  after  me  wearing  out  my 
tongue  to  no  purpose.  The  poor  mistress !  as  if  common 


158  Conquest 

sense  would  move  man  or  mortal  to  anything  good  or 
bad." 

"What  is  it?"  Jim  asked  patiently. 

"Amn'tlleadinguptoit?  It's  the  master.  Sure  it's 
the  heart  that's  broke  in  your  grandfather,  Mister  Jim, 
and  you  a  Government  man.  Didn't  I  turn  my  back  on 
my  own  sister's  son  ten  years  ago  and  he  disgracing  me 
by  being  made  a  peeler.  'Tis  well  I  know  what  Mr. 
Pierce  must  be  feeling  and  his  own  blood  doing  something 
of  the  kind.  Sure  I'd  have  it  against  you  myself  only  my 
heart  is  as  soft  as  dough  at  the  very  thought  or  sight  of 
you." 

"If  you  don't  mind  then  nothing  else  matters,"  Jim 
said  airily. 

"The  same  obstinate  set  of  the  jaw  that  all  the 
Dalys  have,"  Susan  muttered  half  reproachfully,  as  she 
watched  him  rush  down  the  narrow  hall  to  meet  his 
mother  who  had  come  in  from  the  river  front.  "Sure 
they  never  heed  one  another  to  say  that  he'd  heed  the 
likes  of  me." 

"At  last,"  his  mother  said  pushing  him  back  a  little, 
her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "What  does  it  feel  like, 
Jim?" 

He  screwed  his  lips  and  glanced  whimsically  at  the  low 
ceiling  which  his  head  almost  touched. 

"  Like  a  plant  wrenched  from  its  pot  when  it's  been  put 
back  again — feeling  round  trying  to  make  out  what  it  all 
means.  But  it's  more  restful  than  the  other  thing.  Hallo, 
a  grey  hair;  let's  have  it  up." 

"  Poor  old  Jim.  You  felt  like  that  all  the  time? "  she 
said  sadly  as  he  fiddled  with  her  hair. 

"  Not  I.  I  enjoyed  every  minute  of  it.  There,  that's 
better.  It's  younger  you  get,  you  know." 

"I'm  forty-seven." 

"  Fibber.     We  were  born  the  same  day." 


Conquest  *59 

She  blushed  like  a  young  girl,  looked  at  him  keenly, 
and  removed  her  hands  from  his  shoulders. 

"I  did  it  all  for  the  best,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

"  Of  course  you  did — and  it  has  been  for  the  best,  and 
it  is,"  he  said  with  a  firm  set  of  his  jaw.  "And  now 
what's  all  this  nonsense  about  my  grandfather?  Where 
is  he?" 

"Under  the  cedar  tree.  Father  James  is  with  him. 
But  we  must  have  a  talk  about  him  first.  Let  me  show 
you  your  room  and  the  house." 

They  wandered  about  from  room  to  room.  It  was  all 
changed,  but  it  was  still  the  same — not  a  jarring  note 
anywhere.  The  picture  rails  had  not  been  there  before, 
but  they  were  just  right  and  gave  height  to  the  low  rooms. 
The  old  furniture  was  all  there.  Jolly  good  it  was  too — 
must  have  been  bought  by  his  great-great-grandmother 
Edwardes. 

"Ever  hear  of  an  Edwardes  in  the  family?"  he  asked. 

His  mother  knitted  her  smooth  brow. 

"Your  grandfather's  grandmother  on  his  mother's 
side,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 

"Right.  Dick  Edwardes  told  me  all  about  it.  He's 
a  descendant,  too.  Was  up  all  the  time  with  me  and 
claimed  the  attenuated  relationship  as  we  were  coming 
down.  I'm  going  to  see  him — somewhere  near  Belfast — 
Castle  Edwardes.  Orange,  with  a  streak  of  Balliol, 
though  his  people  are  the  real  thing.  Says  they'll  hang 
me  for  a  Croppy.  If  my  grandfather  doesn't  hang  me 
first  for  a  traitor,"  he  laughed. 

"You've  heard  then?"  she  said,  blenching  a  little. 

He  laughed  again.  "  Don't  you  worry.  You  told  me 
twenty  times  that  month  in  Munich — by  not  telling  me. 
And  your  letters — my  young  mumsy  is  as  clear  as  crystal 
when  she  tries  subterfuge.  And  his  not  coming  since 
I  got  the  nomination — not  even  to  Laibach  which  he 


160  Conquest 

longed  to  see.  Besides,  Father  James  gave  me  a  hint, 
and  Susan  has  already  fired  a  broadside." 

She  sat  down  in  the  armchair  in  his  bedroom,  clasped 
and  unclasped  her  hands.  Through  the  window  he  saw 
the  cedar  tree  and  a  table  laid  for  luncheon.  Father 
Lysaght  was  standing  by  the  table,  rubbing  his  chin  with 
his  right  hand  and  speaking  earnestly  to  his  grandfather, 
who  was  half  hidden  by  a  swaying  branch. 

"I  hurt  my  father,  and  now  I  have  hurt  your  grand- 
father, who's  more  than  a  father  to  me,"  she  said  in  a  flat 
monotone. 

"Your  father  hurt  you,  you  mean?"  Jim  said  quietly. 

"I'm  morbid  to  think  of  him  now.  For  that  was 
something  I  couldn't  avoid.  I  would  do  it  all  over  again 
to-morrow  with  full  knowledge  of  the  consequences.  I 
couldn't  regret  it  no  matter  how  hard  I  tried.  But  this  is 
different.  I  foresaw  the  danger  from  the  first.  But  I 
built  on  his  affection  for  you,  for  me.  It  wasn't  as  if  your 
going  into  the  Foreign  Office  was  something  inevitable 
like  my  marriage  with  your  father.  That  was  fate, 
destiny,  what  you  will,  and  I  was  ordering  only  my  own 
life.  But  you're  another  matter. "  She  paused,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cedar  tree. 

Jim  was  distressed.  He  wriggled  from  foot  to  foot, 
and,  when  he  noticed  it,  stood  rigid,  watching  his  mother 
intently.  This  was  the  first  sign  of  weakness  he  had 
ever  seen  in  her.  He  would  give  anything  to  save 
her  one  twitch  of  her  long  nervous  fingers.  If  he  could 
only  shift  the  worry  somehow  from  her  shoulders  to 
his  own. 

"I  shouldn't  have  sent  you  into  the  Foreign  Office," 
she  said  miserably.  "But  it  wasn't  a  mere  whim.  I  had 
something  more  in  view  than  giving  you  a  job  or  a  posi- 
tion. Behind  it  was  a  vague  dream  that  perhaps  some 
day  you'd  help  to  break  down  barriers — built  only  on 


Conquest  161 


ignorance  and  misunderstanding — between  England  and 
Ireland  I  mean." 

"Are  you  sorry  I'm  in  the  Foreign  Office?"  he  asked 
gently. 

She  hesitated.  "No;  I'm  not.  I'm  sorry  for  your 
grandfather,  and  I'm  a  little  afraid  of  you.  It  would  be 
different  if  you  had  chosen  it  yourself." 

"But  I  did  choose  it,"  he  said  firmly.  "We  must 
straighten  out  this  tangle,  mother.  I  owe  you  more  than 
I  can  ever  tell  you.  You've  sacrificed  the  best  part  of 
your  life  to  me.  But  if  you  wanted  me  to  leave  the 
Foreign  Office  there'd  be  a  row.  I  went  there  because  I 
wanted  to,  and  I  mean  to  stay  there — for  the  present,  at 
least." 

She  stared  at  him,  a  little  bewildered  but  he  returned 
her  look  unflinchingly. 

"I  intended  it  from  the  very  first — I  did  my  best  to 
influence  you,"  she  said  falteringly. 

"Then  you  were  as  wise  in  that  as  in  everything  else," 
he  said,  stroking  her  hair.  "My  grandfather  doesn't 
blame  you,  I  suppose?" 

"  No,  he  doesn't  blame  me,"  she  said  listlessly. 

She  had  got  what  she  wanted — yet  it  seemed  a  defeat. 
This  was  some  new  Jim  whom  she  didn't  know.  Her  boy 
had  slipped  away  from  her,  and  in  his  place  was  this  man 
with  set  lips.  In  a  moment  their  relations  had  changed. 
What  was  it  she  had  lost  ?  It  wasn't  his  love.  She  could 
see  it  in  his  eyes,  and  feel  it  in  the  touch  of  his  fingers  on 
her  hair.  She  couldn't  live  if  it  was  otherwise.  Nothing 
mattered,  not  her  father-in-law,  not  anything  as  long  as 
she  held  his  love.  Yes,  she  saw  it  all  now.  Thank  God  it 
had  come  without  any  conflict  of  will.  The  pained  feel- 
ing gradually  ebbed  away  and  only  joy  remained.  He 
stood  apart  from  her  now,  a  man.  The  colour  again 
came  back  to  the  day  and  she  gave  a  glad  sigh.  She  had 


162  Conquest 

escaped  some  horrible  danger.  Had  their  relations  not 
only  been  changed  but  reversed,  she  should  be  glad. 

"It's  that  silly  bed,"  she  said,  standing  up.  "None 
of  us  seems  to  have  realized  how  you'd  grown.  I  must 
have  it  changed." 

"It  is  rather  short,"  he  said  ruefully.  "Shall  I  face 
my  grandfather  now?" 

"Let's,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

But  she  lingered  on  the  way,  hanging  on  his  approval. 
When  he  said  the  little  Paul  Brill  was  jolly  good,  she 
showed  all  the  pleasure  of  having  painted  it  herself. 

Jim  felt  some  change  in  her.  She  had  grown  younger. 
She  was  really  more  beautiful  than  Miss  Scovell — in  a 
different  way  of  course.  If  she  hadn't  pitched  him  into 
the  damned  Foreign  Office  she'd  be  perfect. 

"You'll  be  nice  to  him?"  she  said,  pressing  his  arm  as 
they  walked  across  to  the  cedar  tree. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  said  grimly. 

He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  his  grandfather's,  of 
which  he  was  conscious  from  the  moment  he  left  the  door 
— two  pin-points  of  light  under  white  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"Hallo,  grandfather,"  he  called  out,  more  cheerfully 
than  he  felt,  when  he  was  halfway  across  the  lawn. 

The  eyes  blinked  once,  but  there  was  no  change  in  the 
fierce  accusing  stare.  Jim  stood  in  front  of  the  rush  arm- 
chair, his  lips  set  as  tightly  as  the  old  man's,  his  hand 
stretched  out. 

Father  Lysaght  stood  by  the  side  of  the  chair,  his  lips 
pursed  in  a  noiseless  whistle. 

Pierce  lowered  his  eyes,  and  looked  hungrily  at  the  out- 
stretched hand.  With  a  spasmodic  sigh  that  shook  his 
whole  huddled-up  body  he  raised  his  right  hand  from 
where  it  rested  on  his  knee  and  touched  Jim's  hand  limply, 
muttering,  "You've  disgraced  your  name." 

Suddenly  as  if  the  touch  had  galvanized  him,  his  body 


Conquest  163 

became  taut,  his  hand  gripped  Jim's  fingers  tightly.  He 
looked  up,  his  lips  twitching. 

"How  are  you,  boy?"  he  said  fiercely. 

"  Pretty  fit.     How  are  you,  grandfather?" 

"Poorly — only  poorly,  and  how  could  I  be  any  other 
way?"  he  said,  glaring  at  Jim  reproachfully  but  giving 
another  squeeze  to  the  hand,  which  he  let  go  reluctantly. 
His  head  again  sank  between  his  shoulders,  but  his  angry 
eyes  followed  Jim's  movements. 

"Here's  luncheon,"  Arabella  said  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I've  no  appetite  for  my  dinner.  How  could  I  and — " 
Pierce  began. 

"Well,  I  have,"  Father  Lysaght  interrupted  hastily. 
"I'm  as  hungry  as  a  wolf." 

Pierce  watched  gloomily  the  preparation  of  the  table. 

"Now,  father,"  Arabella  said. 

"Well,  now  that  I  see  it,  I'd  maybe  be  able  to  pick  a 
bone,"  he  said  rising  with  some  difficulty.  "  I'm  as  firm 
as  ever  on  my  feet;  the  trouble  is  to  rise  to  them,"  he  said, 
accepting  Jim's  help.  He  kept  hold  of  his  hand  as  they 
walked  to  the  table  and  then  dropped  it  suddenly. 

"  I  keep  forgetting  things,"  he  said  with  a  frown. 

fe"  It's  by  forgetting  things  that  we  keep  young,"  Father 
/saght  said  with  a  laugh.  "I  forget  my  rheumatism 
whenever  I  can.  When  I'm  out  here  I  forget  that  I'm  a 
sort  of  perpetual  curate  with  the  bishop's  foot  always  on 
my  neck." 

"  You  don't  forget  your  country,"  Pierce  said,  pausing 
in  carving  a  chicken,  and  glaring  at  Jim. 

"I  would  and  welcome  if  you'd  only  give  me  a  drum- 
stick or  something  to  forget  it  with.  And  there's  Jim  as 
hungry  as  a  hawk  after  his  long  journey.  But  with  all 
our  forgetting,  we  mustn't  forget  that  he's  a  sort  of  a 
stranger  and  a  guest  among  us  all." 

Pierce  said  "Humph,"  but  he  carved  more  quickly. 


164  Conquest 

"Did  you  bring  your  rod  with  you,  Jim?"  he  asked 
quietly,  after  a  while. 

"Yes." 

"  A  salmon  wouldn't  rise  to  a  fly  in  an  August  like  this 
unless  he  did  it  in  a  dream,"  Pierce  said,  his  stern  face 
relaxing  into  a  smile.  "Anyhow  I  warned  Con  Driscoll 
that  you'd  be  coming  about  now,  and  he's  keeping  his 
bank  warm  for  you." 

"It's  rumoured  that  the  Tullyfin  tenants  are  settling 
with  Scovell,"  Father  Lysaght  said  tentatively. 

"  There's  many  a  thing  rumoured,"  Pierce  said  placidly. 
"But  not  a  Tullyfin  tenant'll  buy  till  Con  Driscoll 
releases  him,  and  Con'll  make  rio  sign  till  I  give  the 
word." 

"  It's  a  great  strain  on  Miss  Diana  to  be  living  in  the 
house  and  this  fight  going  on,  seeing  the  side  she's  on," 
Father  Lysaght  said  thoughtfully,  fingering  a  wineglass. 
"I  saw  her  at  the  station  to-day  and  she  wasn't  looking — 
well,  as  well  as  one  might  expect." 

Jim  wondered  vaguely  if  it  were  possible  to  paint  the 
lily. 

"She's  an  Irishwoman  for  you,"  Pierce  said  admir- 
ingly. "  It's  the  inside  of  a  jail  she's  under  a  compliment 
for  to  the  English  Government.  That's  the  only  job 
she'd  take  at  their  hands." 

"It's  into  her  coffin  ye  might  send  her  if  ye  go  on 
worrying  her,"  Father  Lysaght  said  gravely. 

"She  told  Con  Driscoll  she  didn't  give  a  thraneen  one 
way  or  another,"  Pierce  said  stiffly. 

"That's  the  sort  of  girl  she  is — to  go  on  grieving  her 
heart  out  in  secret  till  the  harm  is  done,"  Father  Lysaght 
said  with  a  shrug.  "And  what's  between  ye  after  all? 
Scovell  asked  twenty-two  years'  purchase,  and  he's  come 
down  to  twenty.  The  tenants  offered  sixteen  and  have 
gone  up  to  seventeen.  As  Miss  Diana  said  to  me  to- 


Conquest  165 

day,  the  sporting  thing  to  do  would  be  to  split  the 
difference." 

"She  said  that?" 

"Or  words  to  that  effect,"  Father  Lysaght  said  with 
a  shrug  of  indifference. 

"Would  Derek  Scovell  take  eighteen  and  a  half?" 

"He  would." 

"Then  I  won't  break  her  word,"  Pierce  said  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  ' '  You  can  tell  Mallon  from  me  that  he  can 
settle  at  that,  and  I'll  send  word  to  Con  Driscoll.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  since  Miss  Diana  went  to  jail  I'd  be  glad  to 
be  quit  of  it.  I  saw  her  pass  by  a  few  minutes  before  you 
came  and  she  never  looked  better,  with  all  your  'words 
to  that  effect.'  I  suppose  Derek  came  to  you  or  the 
bishop?" 

"He  might,"  Father  Lysaght  said  imperturbably. 

"He  was  always  a  hasty  man,"  Pierce  said  with  a 
quavering  chuckle.  "If  he'd  only  waited  another  two 
days  we'd  have  gone  up  a  year  to  eighteen  and  then  the 
split'd  have  been  at  nineteen,  which  was  what  I  always 
intended  to  give.  Have  a  glass  of  wine  with  me,  Jim, 
boy." 

IV 

Derrylinn,  Simon  Lentaigne  said,  was  an  indiscretion 
of  his  youth.  His  father  had  spent  the  dowry  of  his  wife 
in  building  on  to  a  beautiful  Queen  Anne  house  elaborate 
French  Gothic  stabling  and  out  offices.  At  twenty-one 
Simon  spent  the  accumulations  of  a  long  minority  in 
pulling  down  the  Queen  Anne  house  and  building  an 
elaborate  French  Gothic,  castellated  villa  to  suit  the 
stabling.  Helen  Fraser  preferred  to  see  in  the  raw  lime- 
stone monstrosity  an  obscure  working  of  Providence,  and 
as  Helen  Lentaigne  she  always  defended  it  with  spirit. 


166  Conquest 

Irish  landlords,  she  explained  to  Diana  Scovell,  inherited 
their  ideas  with  their  houses,  vegetated  for  a  few  years, 
and  died.  Simon  had  killed  Queen  Anne  and  all  the 
mouldering  traditions  of  his  class  at  a  blow.  By  a  happy 
impulse  he  had  built  a  house  which  gave  him  artistic 
dissatisfaction  from  the  first,  and  sowed  that  discontent 
which  opened  his  mind  to  new  ideas.  His  mind  walked, 
she  said.  One  could  trace  the  steps:  in  the  Constable, 
which  he  inherited  but  clung  to;  in  the  Ingres,  which  was 
his  first  reaction  from  the  house;  in  the  Corots  and  Man- 
ets  and  Monets,  in  the  Degas  and  Cezanne;  in  the  Sargent 
landscape  and  in  his  latest  purchases — a  Tahitian  study 
by  Gauguin,  and  a  Matisse.  And,  of  course,  to  a  mind 
that  moved  in  Ireland,  English  institutions  went  the 
way  of  the  Victorian  painters — to  the  cellar. 

"It  may  have  been  the  salvation  of  Simon,  but  it's 
beastly  ugly,"  Diana  Scovell  said,  looking  up  at  the 
house. 

"  How  far  is  the  kitchen  from  the  dining-room  in  Daly- 
house?"  Helen  Lentaigne  asked  with  a  tolerant  smile. 

"Miles." 

"Then  a  new  house  has  compensations  beyond  the 
salvation  of  one's  husband's  soul,"  Mrs.  Lentaigne  said 
cheerfully.  "There  are  bathrooms  and  not  makeshifts; 
and  Simon  built  when  servants  had  begun  to  be  con- 
sidered as  human  beings.  You're  out  to  kill  to-night, 
Diana.  That  green  and  gold  with  your  hair.  I  thought 
blue  and  saffron  or  something  were  the  new  national 
colours?" 

"As  if  I  hadn't  outgrown  dress,"  Diana  said  with  a 
pout  at  her  shoe  which  matched  the  dull  gold  trimming 
of  her  dress. 

Mrs.  Lentaigne  glanced  ruefully  at  her  own  rather  full 
figure.  "In  our  coffins,  my  dear — perhaps,"  she  said 
with  a  sigh.  "Even  then  our  souls  will  be  hovering 


Conquest  167 

round,  worried  that  we  haven't  been  laid  out  properly. 
However,"  more  cheerfully,  "black  and  the  powder  puff 
are  still  a  help.  And  Simon  doesn't  see  me — he  sees 
Helen  Fraser." 

"Fudge — fishing?  But  I  only  pay  compliments  to 
plain  women,"  Diana  said  with  an  admiring  look. 

"You  dear  thing,"  Mrs.  Lentaigne  said  with  a  com- 
placent sigh  and  a  pat  on  Diana's  fingers.  "You  should 
have  come  to  stay." 

"A  dinner  with  Uncle  Hamilton  is  as  much  as  I  could 
stand.  What  brings  him  here  of  all  places  ?  The  Orange 
moth  singeing  his  wings  on  the  rebel  candle." 

"  I  'm  a  cousin — he  still  clings  to  that  rock.  And  he  has 
a  fixed  belief  that  any  one  born  Orange  cannot  become 
permanently  insane.  He  has  even  a  faint  hope  of  you, 
though  as  you  weren't  born  in  Ulster  you're  a  worse  case. 
Then  as  Simon  hasn't  joined  a  party  he's  not  entirely  un- 
regenerate.  Poor  old  Hamilton!  He's  as  uneasy  as  a 
clucking  hen.  He  really  comes  to  try  and  find  out  what 
the  Liberals  are  up  to.  He's  in  luck  this  time — we  have 
Patterson,  one  of  the  Whips.  Takes  an  interest  in  Irish 
policy  and  hopes  to  succeed  Birrell.  If  he  didn't  know  so 
much  about  Ireland  and  wasn't  for  ever  airing  his  know- 
ledge— you  know  the  sort  of  thing — he'd  be  quite  nice." 

"Has  he  shown  you  round  Derrylinn  yet?" 

"Worse  than  that.  He  knows  all  our  thoughts  and 
motives." 

"That  kind  of  prize  ass,"  Diana  said  with  a  shrug. 
"Who  else  is  there?" 

"  No  women  but  ourselves.  De  Lacey  the  Sinn  Feiner 
— you  know  him.  One  of  Plunkett's  young  men,  Fergus 
Kane — I  think  you've  met  him.  The  Dean.  George  Dale, 
the  Redmondite  M.P. — warranted  not  to  quarrel  with 
Orangeman  or  Sinn  Feiner.  Dick  Gazeley — the  Meath 
Gazeleys  and  a  sort  of  cousin  of  yours — a  moderate 


i68  Conquest 

Unionist,  but  firm  I  think,  and  the  dark  horse,  Jim 
Daly." 

"Scarty  has  broken  its  shell  then?" 

"Not  Arabella — yet  anyhow.  But  she  asked  me  to 
take  the  young  man  off  her  hands  for  a  few  days.  Old 
Pierce  is  giving  him  a  thin  time — flings  the  Foreign 
Office  in  his  face  a  dozen  times  a  day." 

"Serves  the  fop  right,"  Diana  said  emphatically. 

"Fop?"  Mrs.  Lentaigne  said  indignantly.  "The 
last  thing  I'd  call  him.  Good  looks — certainly.  But  his 
strength  saves  him.  A  bit  of  a  Hercules  and  as  hard  as 
nails." 

"The  superior  English  type,  I  mean — patronizing  and 
all  that.  He  tried  it  on  with  me — I  travelled  down 
will  him  from  Ballybawn." 

"You're  as  prejudiced  as  old  Pierce.  The  boy  has 
absolutely  no  side." 

"Before  I  knew  who  he  was  I  disliked  him  for  being 
an  Englishman." 

"And  now  you  dislike  him  because  he  isn't.  Is  that 
the  logic  of  Sinn  Fein?" 

"You've  a  weakness  still,  Helen,  for  the  logic  of  the 
Orange  Lodge.  I  dislike  him  because  he's  an  Irishman 
who  has  taken  an  English  job." 

"A  Foreign  Office  clerkship  a  job?  Any  one  less  like 
a  careerist  I've  never  met.  Even  Patterson  who,  like 
many  Englishmen,  confounds  life  with  a  career,  says  Jim 
has  thrown  himself  away.  You  don't  know  what  he  did 
at  Oxford?" 

"Became  a  prig  probably.  He  wears  an  English 
Government  label — that's  enough  for  me.  Brought  up  a 
Nationalist,  too,  and  with  such  a  grandfather!" 

"Are  you  a  little  Unionist?" 

"Anyhow  I  don't  like  him,"  Diana  laughed. 

"Well,  that's  a  solid  reason  at  last.     You're  a  silly 


Conquest  169 

goose,  Di.  I'm  starved.  No  wonder  you're  crotchety, 
dear,  at  finding  dinner  put  back  half  an  hour.  But  Mr. 
Patterson  was  so  anxious  to  explain  Ireland  to  the  Beek- 
awn  fishermen  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  refuse.  You 
must  blame  him  for  the  delay  and  not  Jim  Daly.  Let's 
hope  the  Beekawn  people  won't  hate  me  too  much  for  the 
infliction.  Oh,  thank  God,  there's  the  bell." 

"More  round-table  jabber,  I  suppose?"  Diana  said 
with  a  shrug,  as  they  made  their  way  to  the  house. 

"  I've  told  you  who's  here — you  know  the  result,"  Mrs. 
Lentaigne  said  cheerfully.  "Simon  still  hopes  for  a 
miracle.  Some  night  during  a  discordant  wrangle  a 
hand  will  write  on  the  wall  a  heaven-sent  settlement  of 
the  Irish  question.  The  wolves  will  lie  down  with  the 
lambs  and  we  shall  all  be  happy  ever  after.  What  a 
mercy  Simon  didn't  remake  the  park  when  he  rebuilt  the 
house,"  she  added,  gazing  wistfully  at  the  wonderful 
pattern  of  black  and  gold  a  clump  of  elms  made  against 
the  sunset. 

"Violence  is  the  only  method,"  Diana  said  truculently. 
"Strauss  is  the  only  musician  I  can  listen  to.  Harmony 
with  Uncle  Hamilton  and  the  English  can  only  be  got 
through  discords.  The  English  will  at  least  pretend  to  be 
just  if  they're  only  made  uncomfortable  enough." 

"My  dear,  the  complacency  of  the  English  is  like  a 
stone  wall.  The  sun  never  sets  on  their  self-satisfaction. 
They  carry  the  blessings  of  dulness  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  You  bash  your  heads,  and  if  they  notice  you  at 
all  you  are  merely  flies  out  of  season." 

"You're  weakening,  Helen.  And  it  was  here  I  learnt 
that  I  was  Irish." 

"It's  not  the  first  time  that  a  pupil  got  out  of  hand. 
I'm  not  weakening,  though  I  suppose  I've  outgrown  the 
first  zeal  of  the  convert.  You  can't  knock  down  the 
British  Empire  with  a  pop-gun,  my  dear.  But  if  we  only 


170  Conquest 

have  patience  there  must  be  some  way  of  piercing  its 
thick  hide  or  stirring  its  slow-moving  brain.  Walls  of 
Jericho  don't  fall  now  to  the  sound  of  trumpets.  And 
you've  only  been  piping  your  penny  whistle  for  a  year. 
You  won't  intimidate  England  by  bashing  an  Irish  police- 
man." 

"I  might  strangle  it  with  mixed  metaphors,"  Diana 
said  viciously. 

Mrs.  Lentaigne  laughed  heartily.  "Simon  says  I'm 
pretty  dreadful.  It's  the  mixture  of  people  I've  been 
entertaining  for  the  last  fifteen  years,  I  suppose." 

"  I  explained  exactly  how  they  should  view  it  from  the 
economic  standpoint,"  came  in  a  well-modulated  voice 
through  the  open  drawing-room  windows. 

Mrs.  Lentaigne  tripped  up  the  steps  to  the  churchlike 
door  and  paused  to  take  breath,  making  a  grimace 
at  Diana. 

"Mr.  Patterson  again.  We  must  rescue  them,  Di. 
Give  me  a  good  old  Tory  rather  than  a  philosophic  Rad. 
Even  the  Whigs  knew  better  than  to  treat  passion  as  a 
sum  in  arithmetic.  It's  like  curing  a  lovesick  girl  by 
telling  her  to  count  ten  and  draw  a  long  breath." 

"I  could  see  the  self-evident  truth  sinking  into  their 
minds,  slowly  but  surely  taking  hold " 

Dean  Brereton  escaped  with  a  bound  and  met  the 
women  almost  at  the  threshold  of  the  door  opening 
from  the  hall. 

"  My  dear  lady,  you  basely  deserted  us.  Happily  Mr. 
Patterson  filled  the  gap,  in  so  far  as  it  was  humanly  pos- 
sible, by  one  of  his  lucid —  But  this  is  too  charming, 
Diana.  You  didn't  prepare  me  for  this,  Mrs.  Lentaigne. 
It  will  be  a  pleasure  for  you,  Patterson." 

Mrs.  Lentaigne  murmured  an  introduction. 

"The  latest  convert  to  your  policy  of  conciliation,"  the 
dean  supplemented  suavely. 


Conquest  i?1 

"Were  you  at  the  Beekawn  meeting?"  Patterson 
asked,  a  glow  of  interest  in  his  grey  eyes. 

"Centrifugal  attraction,  I  am  afraid,"  Simon  Len- 
taigne  said  with  a  laugh,  taking  possession  of  Diana. 

Patterson,  a  slightly  perplexed  frown  on  his  self-pos- 
sessed, clean-shaven,  hatchet-like  face,  looked  at  the 
dean,  who  was  gently  stroking  his  silky  brown  beard. 

"She's  just  come  out  of  jail,"  the  dean  said  blandly. 

"  Do  explain,  Dale,"  Patterson  said  to  a  slenderly  built 
man,  who,  though  in  correct  evening  dress,  seemed  to 
have  strayed  down  from  the  Renaissance  through  Louis 
Quinze  salons  and  Georgian  withdrawing  rooms  trilling 
Sappho  and  Ronsard  and  Herrick,  the  high  bridge  of  his 
exaggerated  Roman  nose  threatening  him  with  the  stake, 
from  which  a  hint  of  the  dagger  and  the  bowl  in  his 
sardonic  brown  eyes  and  thin  lips  had  perhaps  saved 
him. 

Dale  shrugged  thin  shoulders  gracefully,  and  said,  tilt- 
ing a  black  eyebrow,  "The  dean  means  that  you've  made 
her  an  irreconcilable." 

"We?    What  nonsense.     Do  be  serious,  Dale." 

"Good  Lord.  And  I've  just  listened  to  his  speech  at 
Beekawn,"  Dale  said,  his  white  teeth  gleaming  against 
the  blue-black  of  his  long,  narrow  face.  His  lips  and 
nostrils  curled  in  a  sneer,  but  the  laughing  eyes  softened 
the  sting.  "Unhappily  she  doesn't  belong  to  my  party. 
I  didn't  know  you  had  anything  like  her,  De  Lacey.  I'm 
strongly  tempted  to  join  you.  Who  wouldn't  follow  her  ? 
I  don't  blame  the  Liberals  so  much  for  swallowing  their 
principles  and  suppressing  free  speech  as  for  their  blind- 
ness to  beauty.  It's  enough  to  strain  the  party  friend- 
ship, Patterson." 

"  Do  get  to  the  point,"  Patterson  said  sharply. 

"She  got  fourteen  days  for  making  a  speech,"  De 
Lacey,  a  short,  bearded  man  in  spectacles,  said  quietly. 


Conquest 


"Be  quite  fair,  De  Lacey  —  for  bashing  a  policeman," 
Dale  said  with  a  grimace. 

Patterson  awoke  from  an  abstracted  stare  at  his 
pumps. 

"An  important  distinction,"  he  said  brightly. 

There  was  a  movement  towards  the  dining-room. 
Mrs.  Lentaigne  led  off  with  Diana,  the  men  following  in 
groups. 

"  You  must  introduce  me,  De  Lacey,"  Dale  said  with  a 
friendly  pressure  of  the  arm.  "There's  that  young 
Daly  sidling  up  to  her.  Damn  cheek." 

"She  doesn't  like  the  Parliamentary  party,"  De  Lacey 
said  with  an  impassive  face.  "Likes  'em  about  as  much 
as  she  does  your  friends  the  Liberals." 

"Friends?"  Dale  said,  rubbing  his  chin  ruefully. 
"Surely,  not  quite  that.-  Working  partners,  shall  we 
say?" 

"They  get  the  swag  and  you  the  dishonoured  promis- 
sorry  note,"  De  Lacey  said  with  a  chuckle. 

Patterson  and  Dean  Brereton  sat  on  either  side  of  Mrs. 
Lentaigne  at  the  round  table.  Lentaigne  had  Diana  on 
his  right.  Dale  made  a  move  to  get  beside  her  but  was 
forestalled  by  Jim  Daly.  Dale  then  made  a  successful 
but  unobtrusive  flank  movement  and  took  the  chair  on 
Lentaigne's  left.  Hamilton  Pakenham,  with  a  moody 
glance  at  his  niece,  and  a  grunt  in  response  to  her  "Glad 
you're  near  me,  Uncle  Hammy,"  sat  beside  Dale.  Gaze- 
ley  weighed  the  dean  against  Pakenham  and  chose  the 
vacant  place  between  the  dean  and  Jim  Daly.  De  Lacey 
in  response  to  a  nod  from  Mrs.  Lentaigne,  took  his  seat 
beside  Patterson. 

"When  I  first  married,"  Mrs.  Lentaigne  said,  "I  used 
to  try  and  arrange  people  at  table.  It  worried  my  life 
out  and  was  never  a  success.  Now  —  "  she  paused  as 
a  tall,  gaunt,  clean-shaven  man  came  hastily  into  the 


Conquest  173 


room.  He  stopped  abruptly  and  gazed  at  the  table 
hesitatingly. 

"There's  no  choice  left,  Mr.  Kane.  It  must  be 
between  the  Orange  Lodge  and  Sinn  Fein,"  Mrs.  Len- 
taigne  said  with  a  smile. 

"Couldn't  be  better.  Am  I  not  a  sort  of  halfway 
house?"  Kane  said  drily. 

"Now?"  the  dean  reminded  Mrs.  Lentaigne. 

"Oh,  well  now,  they  fit  themselves  in  anyhow.  I'm 
not  worried,  and  it's  at  least  no  worse  than  when  I  was." 

"I've  quite  lost  my  heart  to  the  Beekawn  fishermen. 
Not  even  my  own  constituents  could  have  been  more 
responsive,"  Patterson  said  emotionally. 

"He  promised  them  a  new  pier,"  Dale  said,  making  a 
bid  with  his  eyes  for  Diana's  sympathy. 

"Good  Lord!  A  pier  on  shifting  sand,"  Lentaigne 
said,  pulling  his  pointed  grey  beard. 

"Bribery  and  corruption,"  Pakenham  grunted. 

"A  Liberal  Government  is  a  government  that  bribes 
with  both  hands,"  Diana  said  sweetly.  "One  day  a  sop 
to  the  so-called  Loyalists,  the  next  a  sop  to  the  Red- 
mondites.  Anything  to  stave  off  Home  Rule." 

"Pity  an  unhappy  Redmondite,"  Dale  said  dolefully. 

' '  H  o w  interesting, ' '  Diana  said  derisively.  ' '  I  thought 
you  never  came  to  Ireland." 

"Always  for  fishing,"  Dale  said  with  an  admiring 
smile. 

"I  must  say,  Mr.  De  Lacey,"  Patterson  said  for  the 
ears  of  the  table,  "I  don't  quite  understand  your  posi- 
tion. Do  you  pronounce  the  word  'Sin'  ?  Oh,  'Shin.'  I 
must  confess  I  find  Sinn  Fein  a  little  unreasonable.  Ire- 
land has  already  an  excellent  body  of  representatives 
who  have  been  most  useful  to  us  in  the  House.  They 
press  the  claims  of  Ireland  in  season  and  out  of  season. 
But  I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  say  that  they  have  learnt  the 


174  Conquest 

reasonableness  which  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  House 
always  induces.  They  know  the  worries  of  a  big  empire, 
more  especially  with  the  state  of  Europe  what  it  is,  and 
are  willing  to  wait." 

' '  How  long  ? "     De  Lacey  said  with  a  smile. 

Patterson  pursed  his  lips.  "We  have  our  difficulties, 
I  admit.  We  must  first  get  the  House  of  Lords  out  of  the 
path — but  the  limited  veto  will  secure  that.  And  some 
of  our  Nonconformist  supporters  are  still  more  Protest- 
ant than  Liberal;  they  have  fears  for  their  co-religionists 
in  Ulster.  Liberal  Imperialists  don't  yet  quite  see  their 
way.  And  there  is  the  fiscal  question;  there  is  a  fear 
among  some  of  our  staunchest  supporters  that  you  are 
not  quite  sound  on  Free  Trade.  But  these  are  all 
matters  of  adjustment  and  balance.  You  must  trust 
us." 

"Why?" 

Patterson  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  glanced  round 
the  table  as  if  seeking  protection  for  his  modesty  and 
reticence. 

"A  very  interesting  question,"  the  dean  said  benignly. 

"Help  me,  Dale,"  Patterson  said  appealingly. 

"To  damn  us  both ? "  Dale  said,  with  a  grin.  "Better 
keep  the  half  loaf  hidden  up  your  sleeve." 

' '  And  when  Mr.  Pakenham  and  his  friends  beat  the  big 
drum  I  suppose  another  slice  will  go?"  De  Lacey  said 
quietly. 

"Whole  loaf  or  half  loaf,  we'll  have  none  of  it,"  Paken- 
ham said  threateningly. 

"And  we'll  take  only  the  whole  loaf,"  De  Lacey  said 
with  a  shrug. 

"What  is  Sinn  Fein  but  a  mere  group?"  Patterson 
said  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  as  if  brushing  it  aside. 

"It's  an  eternal  fact — the  desire  of  a  nation  for 
freedom." 


Conquest  i?5 

"I  speak  of  practical  politics,"  Patterson  interrupted 
icily. 

"And  a  determined  will  to  get  it,"  De  Lacey  finished 
his  sentence  coldly. 

"We  have  the  representatives  of  the  people  with  us," 
Patterson  said,  with  a  smile  at  Dale. 

' '  Indeed, "  De  Lacey  said  ironically.  ' '  Do  you  believe 
in  their  blessed  bill,  Dale?" 

"  It's  a  rotten  bill,  but  it's  the  best  they  can  do,  and  the 
best  we  can  get,"  Dale  said  gloomily.  "Half  a  loaf  is 
better  than  no  bread." 

De  Lacey  laughed  and  then  looked  grave.  "There 
you  have  the  tragedy  of  the  Redmondites,"  he  said 
sadly.  ' '  They  are  one  of  our  grievances  against  you,  Mr. 
Patterson.  You  have  corrupted  them  to  the  sanity  and 
reasonableness  of  your  opportunist  politics.  In  becom- 
ing good  Liberals  they  have  got  out  of  touch  with 
Ireland." 

"  If  I  remember  aright  Sinn  Fein  has  tried  its  strength 
against  them,"  Patterson  said  coldly. 

"And  was  beaten,"  De  Lacey  laughed  pleasantly. 
"But  then  you  hadn't  shown  your  hand.  Your  wonder- 
ful gift  was  still  in  the  poke.  When  the  next  test  comes 
things  will  be  different — very  different." 

"  Dreams  cut  no  ice  in  politics,"  Patterson  said,  with  a 
curl  of  his  lip. 

"But  faith  does,"  De  Lacey  said  good-humouredly. 
"You  don't  believe  in  your  own  bill.  It's  a  mere  move 
in  your  party  game.  But  it's  a  matter  of  life  or  death  to 
us.  You  may  pass  your  bill,  but  Ireland  can't  be  made 
to  accept  it  against  her  will." 

"You  haven't  even  a  policy,"  Patterson  said,  with 
a  shrug. 

"  Solvitur  ambulando — England  has  never  yet  failed  to 
supply  us  with  one,"  De  Lacey  said  amiably. 


176  Conquest 

"Your  friend  De  Lacey  may  be  a  help  to  us  in  dish- 
ing the  Liberals,"  Pakenham  said  thoughtfully  to 
Diana. 

"Oh,  he'll  dish  you  with  them,"  Diana  said  confidently. 

"And  us,  I  suppose?"  Dale  said  ironically. 

"Oh,  you?  You  exist  only  in  Westminster,  and  you'll 
disappear  at  the  next  election." 

"What  the  devil  is  Sinn  Fein?"  Pakenham  asked  with 
a  frown. 

' '  Just  'ourselves, ' ' '  Diana  said  airily.  ' '  Irishmen — we 
don't  exclude  even  Orangemen.  No  hanging  on  the  tail 
of  the  Liberal  cart,  no  going  hat  in  hand  and  cringing 
to  England,  no  sending  of  useless  representatives  to  West- 
minster," her  eyes  seeking  Dale,  who  bowed  and  said: 
"Thank  you."  "No  taking  of  jobs — just  standing  inde- 
pendently on  our  own  feet,  working  out  our  own  salva- 
tion." 

"And  bashing  policemen  for  recreation,"  Pakenham 
said  stolidly. 

" I  got  a  wigging  for  that,"  Diana  laughed.  "No,  no 
violence — passive  resistance.  We  simply  ignore  Eng- 
land." 

"  Is  it  a  joke  or  is  it  high  treason  ? "  Pakenham  asked 
doubtfully.  "What  do  you  make  of  it,  Kane?" 

Diana  laughed.  "He  won't  acknowledge  us,  but  Sinn 
Fein  as  a  political  idea  grew  out  of  the  co-operative  move- 
ment. Horace  Plunkett  and  Mr.  Kane  and  their  friends 
are  really  responsible  for  us." 

"I  won't  be  drawn  into  politics,"  Kane  said  with  an 
amused  smile. 

"Is  the  d — blessed  thing  spreading?"  Dale  asked 
irritably. 

"Like  wildfire.  It's  normal  enough  development  of 
the  intellectual  movement  that  has  been  going  on  for  the 
last  fifteen  years.  I've  always  told  you,  Dale,  your  party 


Conquest  177 

was  foolish  in  not  backing  the  co-operative  movement 
and  the  Gaelic  League." 

"It  has  no  political  experience,"  Dale  said  oracularly. 

"It  has  life,"  Kane  said  drily. 

"What  I  deprecate  is  the  extreme  in  political  views," 
the  dean  said,  wagging  his  head  impressively.  "Take 
things  quietly,  and  everything  turns  out  for  the  best. 
I'm  old  enough  to  remember  disestablishment.  The 
Church  was  to  be  ruined :  we  are  stronger  than  ever  we 
were.  The  Fenians  were  to  have  cut  our  throats :  they 
didn't.  Then  landlords  were  to  be  murdered  or  expropri- 
ated or  both :  they  either  died  in  their  beds  or  live  happily 
in  the  receipt  of  higher  and  far  more  comfortable  incomes 
from  the  funds.  My  good  friend,  Dr.  Phelan,  the  Roman 
Catholic  bishop  of  Droosky  and  I  may  be  seeking  heaven 
by  slightly  different  paths,  but  we  have  a  pleasant  word 
and  a  hand-shake  now  and  again  on  the  way — at  an  asy- 
lum committee  or  elsewhere.  The  Pope  may  have  a 
bad  name  in  Belfast,  but  he's  quite  a  pleasant  person 
in  Droosky." 

"You  couldn't  get  the  Protestant  candidate  elected 
doctor  to  the  asylum,"  Pakenham  objected. 

"  My  dear  Pakenham,  that  was  human  nature  and  not 
religion.  The  Catholic  candidate  had  thirteen  relations 
on  the  committee,  the  Protestant  only  two." 

"Of  course,  you'd  have  elected  the  Catholic  in  Belfast, 
Uncle  Hammy,"  Diana  said  impudently. 

"I'd  venture  to  say,"  the  dean  continued  suavely, 
"that  I  have  less  reason  to  quarrel  with  the  Pope  and 
his  clergy  than  Mr.  De  Lacey,  who  is,  I  understand,  a 
Catholic." 

"  I  get  fewer  smiles  than  you,  anyhow,"  De  Lacey  said 
with  a  shrug. 

"Ah!  How  is  that  now?"  Patterson  said,  pricking 
his  ears  attentively. 


178  Conquest 

De  Lacey  again  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said:  "It's 
one  of  the  anomalies  of  our  political  system  that  the 
Catholic  Church  owes  much  of  its  power  in  Ireland  to  the 
English  Government.  England  does  its  best  to  make  us 
priest-ridden  by  giving  the  Church  control  of  education, 
and  then  points  to  the  power  of  the  Church  as  a  difficulty 
in  the  way  of  self-government.  It  may  be  only  stupidity 
but  it  looks  very  like  malice.  In  no  Catholic  country 
has  the  Church  any  such  power.  Catholics  have  always 
resisted  these  secular  claims  of  their  Church.  Orange- 
men shriek  Home  Rule,  Rome  Rule.  I  and  many 
Catholics  have  more  Rome  Rule  than  we  want,  and  it  is 
English  rule  that  imposes  it  on  us.  Mr.  Pakenham  will 
not,  perhaps,  believe  me,  but  I  would  not  lift  a  finger  for 
Home  Rule  if  it  meant  the  political  rule  of  my  own 
Church.  I'd  a  thousand  times  prefer  the  Union." 

"You  think  the  religious  difficulty  a  bogy  then?" 
Patterson  asked. 

"I  know  it  is.  If  I  may  retort  the  argument,  the  last 
accusation  an  Irish  Protestant  should  make  against 
Catholics  is  religious  bigotry.  The  only  persecuting 
Church  we  have  ever  had  in  Ireland  was  the  Protes- 
tant Church.  Let  us  hope  their  religion  helped  Protes- 
tants in  the  next  world,  for  it  certainly  helped  them  in 
this.  We've  had  a  religious  tyranny  hardly  known 
elsewhere.  A  Protestant  minority  was  endowed  with 
every  political  and  economic  advantage.  It  was  a 
narrow,  bigoted  theocracy,  merciless  and  tyrannical. 
And  England,  the  home  of  progressive  liberty,  backed 
this  moral  and  political  crime  with  all  the  force  of  its 
arms!" 

"Why  shouldn't  it  back  the  true  religion  against 
superstition?"  Pakenham  said  hotly. 

Patterson  smiled.     The  dean  stroked  his  beard  gently. 

"It's  the  Orangemen  and  not  Irish  Catholics  who  share 


Conquest  179 

the  political  ideas  of  the  Vatican,"  De  Lacey  said  with 
a  shrug.  "But,  happily,  the  world  doesn't  stand  still 
either  for  a  Pope  or  an  Orangeman.  With  the  growth  of 
political  liberty  Italian  Catholics  threw  off  the  secular 
rule  of  the  Pope,  and  Irish  Catholics  have  tried  to  free 
themselves  from  the  Protestant  incubus.  The  medieval 
autocracy  which  England  cynically  maintains  in  Ireland 
has  been  tottering  for  years  and  is  now  in  danger  of  fall- 
ing. The  greatest  spoils  system  in  Europe  could  hardly 
appeal  to  the  English  workman  to  maintain  its  economic 
and  political  ascendency,  so  it  squealed  about  the  Pope 
and  the  danger  to  Protestantism,"  he  smiled  at  Paken- 
ham.  "The  Orangemen's  fear  of  the  Pope  is  made  up  of 
a  memory  of  their  own  sins,  a  fear  of  reprisals  and  a  des- 
perate clutching  at  the  remnant  of  the  spoils." 

"That's  a  monstrous — nothing  but  a  gross  travesty," 
Pakenham  spluttered,  his  brick-red  face  going  purple. 
"I  appeal  to  you,  Kane." 

"Every  Church  is  tyrannical  if  it  gets  the  chance," 
Kane  said  cheerfully. 

"We  all  know  what  the  Pope  is,"  Pakenham  said 
heatedly. 

"He's  a  fine  old  Orange  gentleman,"  Diana  said 
maliciously. 

"He  doesn't  bother  us  in  Meath,"  Gazeley  said,  sip- 
ping his  wine. 

"He  does  me  infernally,"  De  Lacey  said  moodily. 
"But  the  English  Government  and  Mr.  Pakenham  and 
his  friends  won't  let  us  deal  with  him." 

"We'll  muzzle  him  effectively  in  our  bill,"  Patterson 
said  with  decision. 

"Exasperate  us  into  defending  him,  you  mean,"  De 
Lacey  said  sharply. 

"How's  feeling  with  your  people  in  Meath  about  the 
bill,  Gazeley?"  Lentaigne  asked  hastily. 


i8o  Conquest 

4 '  Since  we  sold  our  land  we're  taking  it  quietly.  Any- 
how, it's  not  likely  to  be  much  worse  than  the  sort  of 
government  we're  bound  to  have  in  England  before  long. 
You're  letting  the  Socialist  tail  wag  the  dog  too  much, 
Patterson.  We  don't  like  the  bill,  but  if  we  must  have  it 
I  suppose  we  must.  And  the  priests  will  be  a  safeguard 
against  Socialism." 

"Rank  treachery,"  Pakenham  growled. 

Gazeley  shrugged  his  shoulders.  ' '  Do  you  expect  us  to 
fight  England?  And  if  there's  treachery  anywhere  it's 
in  the  North.  What's  all  this  talk  of  partition  ?  If  there 
is  danger  you  evidently  want  to  save  your  own  skins  and 
leave  us  in  the  lurch." 

"Uncle  Hammy  loves  the  Radicals  so  much  that  he 
can't  be  separated  from  them,"  Diana  laughed. 

"We'll  be  driven  to  civil  war,"  Pakenham  said,  with  a 
despairing  gesture. 

The  dean  stroked  his  beard.  "  My  dear  Pakenham," 
he  said  suavely,  "nothing  is  worse  for  a  man  than  worry. 
Never  court  difficulty  prematurely.  Irish  disturbances 
only  happen  in  the  newspapers  and  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. Home  Rule  has  been  a  pleasant  subject  for  dis- 
cussion as  long  as  I  can  remember,  and  there's  every  sign 
that  it  will  last  out  my  time.  We  should  decidedly  miss 
it  as  a  topic.  What  are  the  prospects  for  the  twelfth, 
Simon?" 

Mrs.  Lentaigne  stood  up.  Jim  Daly  moved  back  a 
chair  to  allow  Diana  to  pass  out. 

"You  never  uttered.  Was  it  remorse  for  your  deser- 
tion of  Ireland?"  she  said  half  defiantly. 

"I  wondered  how  the  poor  country  survives  so  much 
discussion." 

"You  think  of  deeper  things,  of  course,"  she  sneered. 

"  Much,"  he  smiled.  "  Do  you  remember  the  fish  we 
caught  together  below  Grange  Con  bridge?" 


Conquest  181 

She  gave  him  a  quick  sidelong  glance.  "So  you've 
remembered  that  too,"  she  said  with  more  friendliness 
of  tone. 


Jim  spent  three  days  at  Derrylinn,  and  as  he  was  a  good 
listener  he  had  Ireland  dinned  into  his  ears  from  half  a 
dozen  angles. 

Lentaigne  was  indignant  with  the  Liberals.  Their 
best  thinkers  seemed  to  have  no  influence  in  the  Govern- 
ment. Administration  in  Ireland  was  a  byword  for 
inefficiency.  Birrell  spoke  beautifully  of  freedom  in  the 
abstract,  made  cynical  epigrams,  and  governed  through 
a  machine  hardly  known  in  England  under  the  Stuarts. 
The  two  departments  of  Irish  Government  with  life  in 
them — out  of  forty-seven — the  Estates  Commissioners 
and  the  Department  of  Agriculture,  were  the  creation  of  a 
Conservative  Government.  The  Liberals  hampered  the 
one  with  pedantic  financial  restrictions,  and  dismissed 
from  the  other  its  founder  and  soul,  Horace  Plunkett,  the 
only  man  in  the  administration  who  combined  a  know- 
ledge of  the  country  with  broad  sympathies  and  a  con- 
structive intelligence.  The  proposed  settlement  was  a 
parody  on  Liberal  principles,  professions  and  promises. 
It  exasperated  Orangemen  and  Nationalists  alike  and 
was  the  crowning  proof  of  England's  incapacity  either 
to  understand  or  govern  Ireland.  Liberal  love  had 
created  a  deeper  sense  of  distrust  than  centuries  of  Whig 
and  Tory  coercion.  The  Unionist  said  to  Ireland : ' '  You're 
a  bold  bad  girl.  I  must  keep  the  manacles  on  your  arms 
and  legs,  but  I'll  give  you  a  lollipop  when  you  behave 
well!"  The  Liberal  wept  on  her  neck  and  talked  of 
striking  off  her  handcuffs  while  carefully  tightening 
her  leg  chains.  It  seemed  as  if  no  English  Cabinet, 


182  Conquest 

Unionist  or  Liberal,  would  ever  see  Ireland  but  as  an 
English  interest. 

Patterson  took  Jim  for  a  long  walk,  asked  his  opinion 
of  the  bill,  and,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  gave  for  two 
hours  his  own  views  on  Ireland  and  the  bill.  Ke  quoted 
Morley  on  Compromise,  and  deplored  that  Irishmen 
hadn't  a  thorough  grasp  of  the  principles  of  the  Man- 
chester school.  The  financial  clauses  of  the  bill  were  a 
triumph  of  orthodoxy.  Ireland  couldn't  stray  from  the 
true  path  under  such  a  strong  rein.  Her  future  depended 
on  strict  adherence  to  Liberal  principles.  When  Irish- 
men fully  understood  the  bill  they  would  all  jump  at  it, 
for  it  gave  Nationalists  all  they  desired  while  it  kept  a  firm 
English  control  which  would  appeal  to  Unionists.  Sinn 
Fein  was  only  a  flash  in  the  pan.  Irishmen  were,  per- 
haps, a  little  unreasonable,  but,  as  he  discovered  at 
Beekawn,  they  were  open  to  conviction.  He  discovered 
everywhere  the  seeds  of  a  sound  Liberalism.  .  .  . 

Dale  deplored  a  wasted  life  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  For  an  Irish  Nationalist  it  was  a  sort  of 
living  grave — a  momentary  hope,  then  indifference  and 
apathy.  Cynicism  was  what  saved  him  from  despair. 
One  couldn't  hate  England,  one  could  only  pity  her. 
She  muddled  Ireland  only  a  little  more  than  she  muddled 
herself.  She  had  bitten  off  more  of  the  world  than  she 
could  chew  and  governed  only  in  spasms.  Ships  and  coal 
and  iron  and  selfishness  had  made  her  rich  and  powerful 
and  stupid,  with  an  occasional  gleam  of  intelligence  of 
which  she  was  ashamed  and  distrustful.  Ireland  was 
alternately  a  nuisance,  a  joke,  and  a  party  stick.  With 
big  majorities,  independent  of  the  Irish  vote,  Liberal 
and  Tory  cheerfully  forgot  her.  With  dwindling  majori- 
ties Tories  took  a  friendly  interest  in  her  ailments,  and 
Liberals  remembered  their  principles,  but  always  with 
discretion.  No  English  party  gave  anything  to  Ireland 


Conquest  183 

except  under  pressure  of  threats  or  fear,  and  then  only 
the  minimum  necessary  for  party  safety.  The  Irish 
question  had  never  yet  been  dealt  with  on  its  merits  by 
any  English  party,  and  never  would  be.  It  was  a  mere 
pawn  in  the  party  game  to  avert  a  danger  or  secure  an 
advantage.  Both  parties  hated  Ireland  as  the  worst  of 
their  many  failures.  The  last  person  to  be  consulted  on  a 
Home  Rule  bill  was  a  Nationalist ;  and  if  he  offered  advice 
it  was  always  disregarded.  England  had  failed  to  govern 
Ireland  for  eight  hundred  years,  but  every  Under-Secre- 
tary  was  confident  that  he  could  in  twenty-four  hours 
draft  a  bill  to  settle  the  whole  mess.  England  would 
never  let  go  her  grip  on  Ireland:  she  hugged  it  as  men 
cling  to  a  secret  sin. 

Jim  complained  of  being  a  bit  bewildered. 

Dale  pushed  his  thin  fingers  through  his  heavy  black 
hair  and  said  that  fifteen  years  of  the  bad  ventilation  of 
the  House  had  muddled  his  own  brain  till  he  saw  all 
English  parties  red. 

"But  you've  been  defending  the  bill  to  De  Lacey?" 
Jim  said  laughing. 

"  Defending  our  taking  it,  you  mean?  What  else  was 
there  to  do  ?  Some  of  our  fellows  have  been  in  the  House 
over  thirty  years — thirty  years  of  bitterness  and  disap- 
pointed hopes — listened  to  with  impatience  unless  we 
played  the  fool  and  amused  'em  in  an  after-dinner  speech, 
voted  down  on  every  Irish  question.  It's  easy  for  De 
Lacey  and  the  Sinn  Feiners  to  sneer  at  Redmond  and 
Dillon  and  the  rest  of  us.  But  he  hasn't  been  a  pariah 
dog  all  his  life,  kicked  away  from  a  bone  or  having  it 
snatched  from  him.  We  are  all  tired  and  sick  and  want 
to  get  away  from  it.  Some  think  this  rotten  bill  the  best 
we  are  ever  likely  to  get  from  English  apathy,  distrust,  or 
active  dislike.  Others  are  ashamed  to  come  back  home 
empty-handed.  Others  see  in  the  bill  the  certainty  of 


1 84  Conquest 

failure  and  the  possibility  of  starting  a  new  agitation  on 
its  breakdown." 

"And  you?" 

Dale  lifted  his  eyebrows  whimsically  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"I  was  brought  up  a  Liberal  and  discovered  my 
country  through  what  I  believed  were  the  principles  of 
Liberalism.  I  now  know  that  Liberal  principles  rarely 
survive  the  taking  of  office.  Bad  as  this  bill  is  I  don't 
believe  we'll  get  it.  Carson  will  bang  the  Orange  drum, 
and  the  bleating  of  that  ass  Pakenham  will  reach  the 
hearts  of  the  great  British  people  with  their  slumbering 
hatred  of  the  country  they  have  wronged.  Or  Sinn  Fein 
may  raise  a  rebellion  in  a  potato  patch,  or  Miss  Scovell 
bash  another  policeman  at  the  critical  moment.  Any 
excuse  will  serve  for  dropping  us  if  the  Liberals  get  afraid 
of  the  next  election.  We  shall  be  called  unreasonable  for 
crying  for  bread,  and  ungrateful  for  not  giving  thanks  for 
a  stone.  Patterson  will  drop  Ireland  like  a  hot  coal  and 
cheerfully  take  up  the  Armenian  question.  Que  voulez 
vous,  Georges  Dandin  " 

"The  Liberal  group  when  I  was  up  weren't  like  that," 
Jim  protested. 

Dale  laughed  cynically.  "Nor  my  group  at  Cam- 
bridge— they  were  idealists  to  a  man.  Some  are  now 
Ministers  with  their  ideals  carefully  locked  up  till  they 
lose  office.  The  rest — any  who  kept  their  faith — are  thin 
voices  crying  in  the  wilderness,  vaguely  wondering  where 
Liberalism  has  disappeared  to  with  a  Liberal  Govern- 
ment in  office.  De  Lacey  thinks  me  a  knave  or  a  fool. 
Perhaps  I  am.  Perhaps  I'm  only  a  disappointed  man 
trying  to  smile  with  as  little  bitterness  as  the  feeling  of 
being  in  a  sinking  boat  permits." 

De  Lacey,  Jim  discovered,  rather  liked  Dale,  and 
thought  him  merely  a  tragedy. 


Conquest  185 

"The  Parliamentary  game  had  to  be  placed.  Parnell 
did  it  magnificently.  He  tore  aside  the  veil  of  sentiment 
Pharisaism  that  hides  English  ruthlessness,  was  as  ruth- 
less as  the  English  and  didn't  trust  them.  When  Glad- 
stone got  him  in  the  heel  his  followers  had  no  grit.  The 
tragedy  was  that  they  believed  in  English  promises.  The 
damned  House  of  Commons  lulled  'em  to  sleep.  They 
saw  two  English  parties  playing  see-saw  over  sewers  and 
Board  Schools  and  thought  that  the  party  which  shouted 
sympathy  with  the  oppressed  of  other  nations  was  burn- 
ing with  zeal  to  free  Ireland.  They  forgot  that  there 
never  had  been  but  one  party  in  England  when  her  own 
sins  had  to  be  hushed  up.  For  Ireland  a  Tory  Govern- 
ment and  a  Liberal  Government  have  always  meant 
exactly  the  same  thing — English  oppression." 

Jim  smiled. 

"There  are  differences  in  the  pressure  of  the  jack-boot, 
perhaps,"  De  Lacey  growled.  "Take  my  word  for  it, 
England  is  all  cant  and  hypocrisy.  You  were  educated 
there  and  you  ought  to  know." 

"That's  perhaps  why  I'm  not  quite  so  sure  as  you  are," 
Jim  laughed. 

"You'll  soon  be  if  you  stick  to  the  Foreign  Office,"  De 
Lacey  said  confidently.  "You'll  join  us  yet.  Before 
we've  done  we'll  paralyze  English  government  in 
Ireland." 

Jim  found  Kane,  who  professed  to  have  no  politics,  as 
political  as  any  of  the  others.  He  spent  the  day  flying 
through  the  county  on  a  motor  bicycle,  organizing  or 
inspecting  agricultural  banks,  stores  and  creameries,  and 
stayed  up  half  the  night  writing  or  talking  and  smoking. 
One  night  Jim  sat  up  with  him  till  five  in  the  morning  in 
a  whirl  of  talk  and  smoke. 

"They  talk  and  talk,"  Jim  said.  "I  make  many  of 
their  generalizations  myself  when  I'm  in  England.  Here 


186  Conquest 

they  seem  too  fluent,  too  easy.  The  effect  on  me  is  to 
make  me  suspect  myself." 

"If  they  are  about  English  stupidity,  don't  worry," 
Kane  said  gravely.  "They  are  the  accumulated  judg- 
ments of  eight  hundred  years'  experience — a  sort  of  racial 
memory  that  breaks  out  instinctively  in  every  Irish- 
man. ' ' 

"But  it  isn't  true." 

"It's  true  in  Ireland  for  an  Irishman.  What  the  devil 
is  it  to  an  Irishman  if  the  Englishman  is  as  wise  as 
Solomon  at  home?  In  Ireland  he  has  shown  only  his 
stupid  tyrannical  side,  and  by  that  he  is  judged.  As 
nations  stand  in  the  world  I  suppose  England  occupies  a 
high  place.  It  has  wealth  and  power  and  a  high  degree 
of  culture,  a  long  roll  of  statesmen  and  poets.  But  the 
Irishman  sees  none  of  these  things.  He  sees  a  big  bully 
whom  he  has  beaten  to  his  knees.  Pakenham  boasts  of 
being  one  of  a  conquering  race  while  he  whimpers  for 
the  backing  of  the  bigger  bully.  The  English  and  their 
Orange  garrison  never  conquered  Ireland.  They  killed 
and  exiled  and  starved  millions,  but  the  unconquerable 
soul  of  the  country  they  have  never  been  able  to  touch. 
It  mocks  them  from  beyond  the  grave.  It  despises  them 
here.  It  is  England  and  not  Ireland  that  has  been  con- 
quered— conquered  by  an  idea;  though  England,  which  is 
groping  after  its  own  soul,  lost  in  and  clogged  by  material 
success,  doesn't  yet  see  it.  When  England  has  advanced 
some  steps  further  on  the  spiritual  road  and  can  see  her 
own  injustice  as  clearly  as  she  now  sees  the  injustice  of 
others  she  will  right  her  wrong  to  Ireland.  Individuals 
see  it  already.  The  various  half-hearted  attempts  at 
Home  Rule  show  the  working  of  the  spirit  in  wider 
groups.  You  can  see  it  here  among  the  garrison,  even 
in  this  house.  Mrs.  Lentaigne  and  myself  were  brought 
up  in  the  belief  that  God  was  an  Orange  gentleman  who 


Conquest  187 

austerely  whipped  the  mere  Irish  into  blacking  His  boots 
and  starching  His  shirt  and  graciously  kicked  them  to 
hell  for  their  pains.  We  have  given  up  the  worship  of 
that  fetish.  So  have  Lentaigne  and  Dale.  It  shows 
what  a  political  cleavage  religion  made  in  Ireland  when 
we  are  known  as  Protestant  Home  Rulers.  The  pretty 
girl  who  dined  here,  Miss  Scovell,  is  a  symptom  of  a  more 
robust  awakening  among  women.  Gazeley  is  a  common 
type  of  the  Protestant  landlord  outside  Ulster.  He's 
a  Unionist  more  by  tradition  than  by  conviction.  The 
extremists  on  his  own  side  irritate  him,  and  he's  a  little 
suspicious  of  extremists  on  our  side,  but  he  wants  peace- 
Ulster  is  England's  worst  crime  in  Ireland,  and  will  cause 
her  most  trouble  in  the  end.  When  the  last  Englishman 
is  converted  to  Home  Rule  a  remnant  of  Orangemen  will 
be  found  banging  a  drum  and  proclaiming  themselves  the 
only  loyal  Englishmen.  They  owe  everything  to  Eng- 
land, but  nothing  will  shake  an  Orangeman's  conviction 
that  he  keeps  the  British  Empire  from  crumbling  to  bits. " 
He  smoked  for  a  while  in  silence.  "The  whole  thing 
is  very  sad  to  me,"  he  broke  out  again  with  a  sigh. 
"Though  I  have  left  the  Orange  camp  and  have  no  sym- 
pathy whatever  with  their  political  attitude,  I  was 
brought  up  among  them  and  I  understand  them.  And 
where  there  is  understanding  there  is  always  a  certain 
amount  of  sympathy.  To  understand  them  at  all  one 
has  to  put  back  one's  mind  politically  and  religiously  for 
over  two  hundred  years.  They  are  the  Scotch  Coven- 
anter and  the  English  Puritan  living  on  into  the  twentieth 
century.  In  England  and  Scotland  the  dourness  of  the 
extremer  forms  of  Protestantism  was  softened  by  adver- 
sity. In  Ireland  they  were  top  dog.  Both  Presbyter- 
ians and  low-church  Protestants  were  equally  the  chosen 
of  God  before  the  common  enemy,  the  heathen  Papist 
and  his  god  the  Scarlet  Woman,  whom  they  did  their 


1 88  Conquest 

best  to  destroy  with  fire  and  sword.  In  intervals  of  rest 
from  smoking  out  Papists,  Episcopalians  and  Presby- 
terians fought  out  their  own  little  rows.  The  Presby- 
terians had  a  slim  time,  and  many  of  them  were  forced 
to  emigrate  to  America  to  escape  persecution.  While 
the  Papists  were  crushed,  Episcopalians  and  Presbyter- 
ians could  afford  to  fight  among  themselves.  They  even 
developed  a  sort  of  top-dog  nationalism  and  resented 
English  interference.  The  Union  was  carried  by  English 
bribery  against  the  will  of  the  majority  of  Irish  Protest- 
ants. Catholic  emancipation  again  united  Episcopalians 
and  Presbyterians  against  the  common  Papist  foe.  But 
the  real  political  consolidation  of  Irish  Protestantism 
came  with  the  agitation  for  the  repeal  of  the  Union. 
The  Pre-Union  Irish  Parliament  was  entirely  Protestant. 
An  Irish  Parliament  after  1829  would  be  predominantly 
Catholic.  Irish  Protestants,  who  had  fought  steadily 
against  English  aggression  during  the  whole  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  forgot  at  once  their  grievances  against 
England  and  the  differences  among  themselves,  remem- 
bered that  they  were  an  outpost  of  English  civilization 
and  became  more  English  than  the  English  themselves. 
The  Orangemen,  who  had  no  love  of  England  while  their 
heels  were  firmly  fixed  on  the  necks  of  the  Catholics,  sud- 
denly discovered  their  love  when  the  Catholics  began 
to  show  their  heads.  The  history  of  Ireland  during  the 
nineteenth  century  is  the  story  of  the  struggle  for  politi- 
cal, economic,  and  religious  equality  of  the  Irish  Catholic 
against  Irish  Protestantism  backed  by  England.  It  was 
an  unholy  alliance.  England  with  her  boasted  love  of 
freedom,  with  her  progressive  laws  of  liberty,  deliberately 
lent  herself  to  maintain  in  Ireland  the  political  and 
religious  acendancy  of  a  comparatively  small  minority. 
Not  only  that,  but  England,  with  her  own  religious  and 
political  ideas  broadened  by  three  centuries  of  progress, 


Conquest  189 

upheld  in  Ireland  narrow  religious  and  political  ideas 
which  she  herself  had  been  gradually  discarding  since  the 
seventeenth  century.  The  Irish  Catholic  was  coerced, 
put  under  martial  law,  deprived  of  his  rights  under 
Habeas  Corpus,  because  he  strove  to  have  the  freedom 
of  any  ordinary  Englishman.  He  struggled  for  liberty 
according  to  English  ideals  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
and  was  dealt  with  by  English  methods  of  the  seven- 
teenth, including  even  the  Star  Chamber.  England's 
share  in  the  blame  I  leave  to  God,  to  her  elastic  con- 
science, and  to  her  historians  who  find  it  hard  to  believe 
that  she  can  do  a  wrong.  I  can  find  no  excuse  for  her. 
The  Irish  Protestant  is  less  to  blame.  English  states- 
men knew  that  they  were  acting  against  their  principles, 
but  their  Irish  administrators  had  no  qualms.  They 
got  their  power  in  the  seventeenth  century  because  they 
were  Protestants,  arid  there  has  been  no  change  since  then 
either  in  their  Protestantism  or  in  their  political  ideas. 
Senator  Tillman  once  said  that  no  law  of  the  United 
States  ever  gave  a  vote  to  a  negro  or  took  one  away  from 
a  white  man.  Irish  Catholics  managed  to  grab  the  vote, 
but  Irish  Protestants  have  managed  to  keep  the  power. 
Eighty  years  after  Catholic  emancipation  they  still 
run  the  country.  They  call  on  England  to  maintain  a 
system  which  gives  them  the  privilege  of  defending  the 
sound  Protestantism  of  John  Morley  against  the  wiles 
of  the  Scarlet  Woman  and  a  Stuart  Toryism  against  the 
subversive  political  ideas  which  the  Nationalists  have 
borrowed  from  the  textbooks  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge ! 
Then,  of  course,  the  Union  pays.  Up  to  five  or  six  years 
ago  ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  the  jobs  of  any  importance 
went  to  Protestants.  As  Nationalist  M.P.'s  never  take 
office  the  small  Ulster  representation — nearly  always 
lawyers — are  sure  of  jobs.  The  acceptance  of  the  Union 
by  Nationalists  would  be  as  great  a  blow  to  good  Pro- 


190  Conquest 

lestants  as  Home  Rule.  They  even  howl  because  the 
Liberals  have  given  a  few  jobs  to  the  tamer  Nationalists." 

"The  difficulty  is  deeper  than  mere  spoils,  I  suppose?" 
Jim  said. 

"I  agree,"  Kane  said  with  a  shrug.  "But  the  spoil 
hunters  have  the  loudest  voices  and  do  most  to 
prevent  a  settlement.  The  narrow  fanaticism  of  the 
Ulster  Protestant  also  stands  in  the  way.  And  men 
hate  to  lose  power.  But  there  are  glimmerings  of  reason. 
Ten  years  ago  no  Unionist  would  admit  the  possibility  of 
Home  Rule  for  any  part  of  Ireland.  Now  it  is  admitted 
that  Home  Rule  is  inevitable  outside  Ulster.  There  is 
even  talk  of  dividing  Ulster.  This  splitting  up  of  Ireland 
is  so  damned  silly  that  it  might  seem  reasonable  to  the 
English  mind.  The  worst  fanatics  after  the  Ulster 
Orangemen  are  the  Ulster  Catholics.  You  won't  make 
them  less  bigoted  by  isolating  them.  It's  the  politics  of 
the  parish  pump  and  would  only  create  fresh  difficulties. 
Economically  the  thing  is  absurd.  The  National  senti- 
ment of  Ireland  one  nation  is  sound  through  and  through. 
Belfast  needs  the  southern  hinterland  just  as  much  as  the 
agricultural  South  needs  the  manufacturing  North. 
Their  trade  and  banking  are  inextricably  mixed  up  at  this 
moment  to  their  common  advantage.  I  hate  the  Union, 
but  I'd  rather  have  the  Union  than  have  a  new  artificial 
barrier  set  up  within  the  country.  England  created  the 
Irish  difficulty  and  she  has  got  to  settle  it,  but  perpetu- 
ating it  is  not  settling  it." 

He  emptied  his  pipe,  blew  it  clear,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"It's  five  o'clock  and  I  have  to  be  at  Duncashin  for  a 
meeting  at  nine,"  he  said  with  a  yawn.  "  Belfast  people 
tell  me  that  the  South  would  ruin  the  industries  of  the 
North,  that  the  Southern  Irish  have  no  business  capacity, 
Duncashin  is  an  agricultural  parish  with  only  three  Pro- 


Conquest  191 

testant  families  out  of  three  hundred.  It  has  a  creamery, 
a  bank,  an  agricultural  society,  a  co-operative  store. 
There  isn't  in  Belfast  a  greater  miracle  of  successful 
business.  Good  God,  I'm  sick  of  Irish  politics  as  it  is 
served  up  at  the  English  breakfast  table." 

He  lit  a  candle,  blew  it  out  again  with  a  laugh  as  he 
noticed  the  sun  streaming  through  chinks  in  the  shuttered 
windows. 

"I'm  like  an  English  statesman,  peering  at  the  Irish 
question  with  a  candle  while  the  sun  shines  full  on  it. 
One  would  be  in  despair  if  the  miracle  of  the  British 
Empire  didn't  cheer  one  up.  England  teaches  men 
liberty  and  then  tries  to  go  on  governing  them  like  an 
old  grandmotherly  schoolmaster.  Wherever  she  goes 
she  sets  up  an  Ulster  and  is  a  little  shocked  when  it  is 
kicked  out  or  slapped  in  the  face.  But  she's  not  so  stupid 
as  when  she  bungled  America  and  lost  it.  She  spanked 
her  Ulsters  in  Canada,  South  Africa,  and  Australia — 
when  there  was  no  other  way  out  of  the  muddles  she  and 
they  had  made.  Some  day — but  let's  go  to  bed." 

Late  one  afternoon  Jim  met  Pakenham  in  a  little 
ruined  church  on  the  outskirts  of  the  demesne.  Paken- 
ham was  examining  the  carved  doorway. 

"That's  Norman,  I  suppose?"  he  said,  with  a  friendly 
look. 

"No,  it's  pre-Norman — Irish,  in  fact;  Celtic  Roman- 
esque in  the  jargon." 

1 '  Hum,  hum.  They  had  some  idea  of  architecture 
then?" 

"Ornament  was  highly  developed;  but  the  Norman 
invasion  seems  to  have  arrested  development  in  native 
architecture.  There  was  promise  in  it,  but  Irish  Gothic 
is  second-rate." 

"Humph.  You  should  see  some  of  our  buildings  in 
Belfast.  I  must  say  I  like  our  host's  house,  but  Simon 


i92  Conquest 

built  it  before  he  went  over  to  the  enemy — when  he  had 
some  common  sense.  But,  good  God,  what  a  collection 
of  freaks  he  always  has  about  him." 

"I  suppose  we  are,"  Jim  laughed. 

"I  didn't  mean  you,  of  course.  You're  in  the  service 
of  your  country.  Damn  plucky  it  was  of  you,  too,  to 
stand  out  against  the  old  man.  Helen  Lentaigne  told  me 
about  it  to-day  and  I  was  proud  of  you.  And  you  a 
Pa — a  Roman  Catholic,  too.  It's  a  real  pleasure  to  meet 
a  man  of  sense — a " 

"Brand  plucked  from  the  burning,"  Jim  suggested, 
with  a  grin  at  the  clichS. 

Pakenham  nodded  gravely.  "A  loyalist  I  was  going 
to  say.  Beyond  yourself  and  myself  I  don't  believe 
there's  another  in  the  house." 

"Patterson  is  a  minister  of  the  Crown,"  Jim  said  drily. 

"Queen  Victoria  would  have  strung  him  on  the  nearest 
tree,"  Pakenham  said  angrily.  "But  this  young  King — 
badly  advised,  too  ?  Not  even  Royalty  is  what  it  used  to 
be.  And  I  can  remember  the  time  when  Liberal  didn't 
spell  'traitors.'  Some  quite  decent  Ulstermen  used  to  be 
Liberals,  but,  thank  God,  they  saw  the  cloven  hoof  when 
the  Liberals  went  over  to  Home  Rule.  I  wish  I  could  say 
the  same  of  Conservatives  in  the  South.  There's  Gaze- 
ley  now.  I  can  remember  when  Gazeley  was  a  decent 
man — as  sound  as  a  bell  on  the  Union.  And  now  his 
loyalty  isn't  worth  six  months'  purchase.  The  South 
has  gone  to  the  dogs — not  even  the  Church  is  sound. 
There's  the  dean,  veering  round  like  a  weathercock.  If 
Home  Rule  came  in  the  night  he'd  enjoy  his  breakfast  in 
the  morning  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  And — but 
I  can't  speak  of  her.  Thank  God  the  property  is  in  tail 
and  goes  to  a  sound  Unionist — what  the  damn  Nation- 
alists will  leave  of  it.  She  has  only  a  child's  portion,  and 
a  damn  sight  too  much  it  is  for  a  rebel." 


Conquest  193 

"Your  niece?"  Jim  asked,  with  a  quickened  interest. 

"Niece?  A  changeling,  sir.  She  can't  have  a  drop  of 
Pakenham  blood  in  her.  Mad,  sir.  Mad  as  a  March 
hare.  The  whole  world  seems  to  be  going  mad,  but, 
thank  God,  Ulster  is  keeping  its  sanity.  Even  if  English- 
men became  traitors  to  their  flag,  Ulster'd  still  be  loyal. 
But  the  heart  of  Protestant  England  is  sound.  It's  only 
those  damn  Liberals  trying  to  deceive  the  world.  Wait 
till  we  beat  the  drum  in  every  parish  in  England  and  ex- 
plain our  wrongs.  We  have  right  on  our  side,  and  God  is 
with  us.  England  can't  have  forgotten  the  walls  of 
Deny  and  the  memory  of  her  great  King  William.  We'll 
wake  her  up  from  the  sleep  with  which  the  Liberals  have 
drugged  her.  Orangemen  saved  England  at  the  Boyne 
and  they'll  save  her  to-day  from  the  cut-throat  murderers 
who  threaten  her  liberties." 

"De  Lacey  and  Dale  are  mild-mannered  murderers," 
Jim  said  with  a  smile. 

"They're  clever  enough,  I  admit,"  Pakenham  said 
sadly.  "  B  ut  my  dear,  sir,  that's  all  put  on  to  bamboozle 
that  ass  Patterson.  Any  one  can  fool  an  Englishman. 
It  takes  a  n  Ulsterman  to  see  through  the  hypocrisy  of  the 
Nationalists.  They've  even  learned  to  talk  their  non- 
sense as  if  there  was  some  sense  in  it.  But  all  the  time 
they  have  a  knife  or  blunderbuss  up  their  sleeves.  What 
can  one  expect  with  the  priests  and  the  Jesuits  egging 
them  on." 

"But  Dale  is  a  Protestant,"  Jim  objected  with 
amusement. 

"No  Protestant  in  his  senses  could  be  a  Nationalist," 
Pakenham  said  with  a  frown.  "Protestant  Home 
Rulers  are  either  completely  mad  like  that  dreadful  niece 
of  mine;  or  a  little  touched,"  he  tapped  his  forehead 
lightly  with  the  middle  finger  of  his  right  hand,  "like  the 
Lentaignes — decent  people,  but  they've  gone  quite  soft 


194  Conquest 

in  the  brain;  or  write  poetry  like  Kane;  or  are  concealed 
Jesuits  like  Dale.  I  can  see  it  in  the  fellow's  eye.  He's 
the  most  dangerous  sort." 

They  turned  the  corner  of  a  shrubbery  and  came  in 
view  of  the  front  of  the  house. 

"A  telegram  for  you,  Daly,"  Dean  Brereton  called  out 
from  the  steps. 

Pakenham  went  in  by  a  side  door,  while  Jim  walked  on 
hurriedly  to  meet  the  dean. 

"Dear  Pakenham  is  rather  trying,"  he  said,  as  he 
handed  Jim  the  telegram. 

"He  was  explaining  to  me  all  about  Nationalists  and 
Catholics,"  Jim  said,  as  he  tore  open  the  envelope. 

"He  would,"  the  dean  said,  with  a  faint  sigh.  "The 
dear  fellow  even  suspects  me  of  being  a  Jesuit  because  I 
don't  wear  Orange  spectacles." 

Jim  read:  "Everything  is  now  all  right.  Come  home 
as  soon  as  possible.  Mother." 

"Something  pleasant?"  the  dean  said,  watching  Jim 
smile. 

"Some  quiet  fishing  at  least.  It's  a  wonderful 
country,  dean." 

"The  pleasantest  in  the  world,"  the  dean  said  blandly. 

VI 

"How  are  things  at  home?"  Father  Lysaght  asked 
eagerly,  as  he  shook  hands  with  Jim  in  the  main  street  of 
Lisgeela,  opposite  a  retiring  Georgian  house  on  which  the 
Virginian  creeper  was  beginning  to  turn  red. 

"Couldn't  be  better." 

"Good,"  the  priest  said,  with  a  nod  of  satisfaction. 
"I'm  glad  I  got  round  the  old  man  at  last.  It  was  a 
chance  remark  your  mother  made  to  me  fifteen  years  ago 
that  did  it  in  the  end — about  Hugh  O'Neill  being  brought 


Conquest  195 

up  at  the  Court  of  Elizabeth  and  using  against  the  Eng- 
lish themselves  the  tricks  of  government  he  learnt  there. 
That,  and  the  fact  that  you  spend  more  than  you  make  out 
of  your  job.  Not  but  he  was  glad  enough  to  find  a  bridge 
by  which  to  cross  over  to  you.  Are  you  coming  in  here  ? ' ' 
he  added,  pointing  to  the  brass  name  plate:  "RICHARD 
A.  KAVANAGH,  Solicitor,"  on  the  gate  of  the  low  iron 
railing  in  front  of  the  house. 

' '  Yes.     But  I  wish  Dick  had  another  dinner  hour. ' ' 

"So  would  Dick,"  Father  Lysaght  laughed.  "Five 
o'clock  is  a  sign  that  Macdonald  is  dining  with  us.  Since 
he  became  a  Monsignor  he  won't  dine  with  any  one  in  the 
town  at  any  other  hour.  It's  his  idea  of  fashion,  poor 
man.  The  bishop,  who  can't  wait  a  minute  after  three, 
and  himself  nearly  had  a  row  over  it.  But  the  laity  have 
to  give  in." 

They  were  kept  waiting  on  the  doorstep  for  some 
minutes.  Father  Lysaght  rang  a  second  time  and  then 
said  apologetically. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  flurry  poor  Kate.  She's  probably  dishing 
the  dinner,  and  Dick  gives  her  the  rough  edge  of  his  tongue 
if  she  answers  the  door  without  being  spick  and  span  in 
her  cap  and  apron.  He's  aiming  at  great  style." 

The  door  was  opened  by  Dick  Kavanagh  himself  in  a 
tweed  coat,  riding  breeches,  heavy  boots,  the  tops  of  his 
woollen  stockings  an  elaborately  designed  tartan  plaid  of 
vivid  colours.  He  wore  a  huge  gold  fox-mask  pin  in  his 
white  hunting  stock.  His  swarthy  face  glistened  from  a 
recent  shave.  His  thick  lips,  stubby  black  moustache, 
snub  nose,  small  grey  eyes  under  bushy  black  eyebrows, 
large  white  teeth  and  thick  wiry  black  hair  shining  with 
brilliantine  united  in  a  broad  grin  of  welcome. 

"I'm  glad  you  were  able  to  come,  Mr.  Daly.  How  is 
the  world  using  you,  Jim?"  he  said,  awkwardly.  "You're 
welcome,  your  reverence.  If  I  were  you,"  to  Jim  again, 


196  Conquest 

"it's  not  next  or  nigh  this  rotten  three-ha'penny  town  I'd 
come,  out  of  the  hunting  season  too.  Only  that  I  take  a 
run  up  to  Dublin  myself  an  odd  time  I'd  be  a  regular  old 
frowst.  Not  but  there  are  some  likely  little  girls  in  Lis- 
geela,  but  Father  James  keeps  a  strict  eye  on  'em." 

"It's  time  you  settled  down,  Dick,"  Father  Lysaght 
said  coldly. 

"And  a  man  having  only  one  life  and  a  short  one  at 
that,"  Dick  sighed,  with  an  appealing  look  at  Jim. 
"There's  room  on  the  rack  for  your  hats.  Everyone  is 
here  now — up  with  the  dinner,  Kate,"  he  shouted  down  a 
stairway  at  the  back  of  the  little  hall.  "You'll  find 
everything  rough  and  ready,  but  what  can  you  expect  of 
a  lone  bachelor,  and  I  was  sure  you  wouldn't  mind  for  the 
sake  of  old  times,"  he  said,  holding  Jim  back  as  Father 
Lysaght  entered  a  sitting-room  on  their  right.  "I've 
got  old  Mac  to  meet  you.  He's  fat  and  fifty  but  a  spry 
old  boy  still.  He  takes  the  Miss  Curleys  to  the  sea  as 
if  he  were  only  a  three-year-old,  and  they're  no  chickens 
now  I  can  tell  you,  though  they're  fluffier  than  ever,  with 
golden  hair  falling  down  their  backs.  He's  as  proud  as 
Punch  of  you,  and  is  always  talking  of  some  examination 
or  other  you  passed.  But  we'd  better  go  in. ' ' 

Monsignor  Macdonald,  in  a  dark  purple  caped  soutane 
and  bright  purple  sash,  trimming,  and  buttons,  separated 
himself  from  the  group  standing  in  front  of  the  empty 
grate,  and  advanced  to  meet  Jim  with  mincing  steps,  a 
smile  on  his  handsome  florid  face. 

"My  dear  boy, ' '  he  cooed  in  a  rounded  voice.  ' '  This  is 
a  pleasure." 

His  lips  curved  in  a  smirk.  The  jaunty  white  curl  on 
his  forehead,  almost  concealing  his  baldness,  seemed  to 
smirk.  He  wrung  Jim's  hand  heartily  and  patted  his 
shoulder.  "You  have  done  well,  my  boy,  but  you  may 
thank  the  good  seed  that  was  planted  in  you  at  St.  Stanis  • 


Conquest  197 

laus  College.  It's  a  proud  day  for  me  to  dine  at  the  table 
of  one  distinguished  pupil  to  greet  another — Dick  doesn't 
suffer  from  small  jealousies  on  the  academical  plane — still 
more  distinguished." 

"I  passed  my  final  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth,"  Dick 
muttered. 

"  But  let  me  introduce  you,"  the  Monsignor  continued 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  the  group  round  the  fireplace. 
"Mr.  James  Daly,  gentlemen,  who  has  shown  Oxford 
University  what  St.  Stanislaus  College,  Lisgeela,  can  do 
in  belles  lettres  and  the  arts  and  sciences.  Mr.  Murphy, 
the  esteemed  manager  of  our  branch  of  the  National 
Bank,  who  lets  us  all  overdraw  our  accounts  in  reason." 

"  I  wish  to  God  he  did,"  Dick  Kavanagh  murmured  as 
he  joined  gloomily  in  the  general  laugh. 

A  tall,  nervous  man  with  sloping  shoulders  wagged  his 
ragged  beard  with  a  silent  chuckle  as  he  shook  hands, 
peering  at  Jim  with  weak  but  pleasant  brown  eyes  over 
spectacles  low  on  his  nose. 

"  Dr.  Greany,  who  brought  you  into  the  world." 

"A  fine  baby — scaled  nine  pounds  and  a  quarter,"  the 
little  pompous  doctor  said,  snatching  at  Jim's  hand,  with 
an  aggressive  look  around  as  if  someone  had  denied  the 
interesting  fact. 

"Mr.  Foley,  our  respected  District  Inspector  of 
Police." 

A  small,  clean-shaven  man,  who  tried  hard  to  look  like 
a  groom  but  failed  by  a  hair's -breadth,  bowed  with  a 
deprecatory  smile. 

"  Dick  and  Father  Lysaght,  who  keeps  us  all  in  order, 
you  know.  One  of  my  assistants — Father  Devitt,"  the 
Monsignor  added  curtly,  with  a  slight  grimace  at  an 
athletic-looking,  black-haired  young  priest  who  smiled 
cynically.  With  a  return  to  his  genial  florid  manner,  the 
Monsignor  added  blandly :  ' '  And  last,  but  not  least,  Mr. 


198  Conquest 

McEnvoy,  who  woos  the  law  no  less  diligently  than  our 
host." 

"I  may  woo  her,  but  it's  to  McEvoy  she  gives  the  glad 
eye,"  Dick  said,  with  a  grin  at  the  bright-eyed  young 
man,  fair,  rather  fat,  strong  jawed  but  with  pleasant  lips, 
who  was  shaking  hands  with  Jim.  "But  if  I  don't  get 
cases  I  can  always  give  a  good  account  of  myself  at  a 
dinner.  I  had  a  squint  at  Kate  taking  it  in.  Will  you 
lead  the  way,  Monsignor?" 

"With  pleasure,  my  dear  boy,"  Monsignor  Macdonald 
said  cordially,  taking  Jim's  arm.  "You  can  see  the  lack 
in  this  room — a  woman's  taste,"  he  added  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  at  the  green  baize  covered  centre  table.  "A 
nice  bunch  of  flowers  now'd  set  that  off,  and  a  few 
antimacassers  on  the  backs  of  them  lonely-looking  chairs, 
and  some  vases  and  china  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece. 
Dick  has  good  taste  in  dressing  himself,  but  it  doesn't  run 
to  titivating  his  house." 

"You've  noticed,  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Daly,"  Dr.  Greany 
said  pompously,  as  Dick  struggled  with  a  large  joint 
of  roast  beef,  "the  immense  improvements  in  our 
town?" 

"  It  has  changed  a  good  deal,"  Jim  admitted. 

"My  father  used  to  have  it  all  his  own  way,  and  now 
there  are  four  solicitors  taking  the  bread  out  of  one 
another's  mouths,"  Dick  growled,  helping  the  Monsignor 
to  beef. 

"Sure  the  more  lawyers  the  more  law  they  say,"  the 
Monsignor  said  feelingly,  helping  himself  to  mustard. 
"Just  a  hint  of  that  horseradish  sauce,  Dick.  It's 
wonderful,  glory  be  to  God,  the  prosperity  we're  enjoy- 
ing. Only  yesterday  his  lordship  said  to  me-  'I  doubt, 
Monsignor,'  he  said,  'whether  in  the  greatest  age  of  the 
faith  so  much  stone  and  mortar  was  ever  piled  up  to  the 
service  of  God  in  any  small  town  as  Lisgeela  has  seen 


Conquest  199 

during  the  last  twenty  years.'  'And  so  worthily,  my 
lord,'  I  said.  Dick,  the  beef  is  done  to  a  turn." 

"The  town  and  the  country,  as  far  as  my  rounds 
extend,  have  progressed  to  an  unexampled  material 
prosperity,"  Dr.  Greany  said  enthusiastically. 

"  Material  and  spiritual,  "the  Monsignor  cooed.  "For 
the  first  time  in  its  history  Lisgeela  has  a  Monsignor  as 
president  of  its  noble  college.  Honours  of  the  kind  are 
only  a  trial  of  the  flesh  to  a  humble  man  like  myself,  but 
I  can't  help  taking  a  pride  in  it  for  the  sake  of  the  town." 

"Jim  can't  help  seeing  that  the  town  has  got  on," 
Father  Lysaght  said  drily. 

"A  new  flourishing  bank  that  hasn't  diminished,  the 
prosperity  of  the  old — two  blades  of  grass,  as  it  were, 
where  one  grew  before,"  Dr.  Greany  said  lyrically.  "I 
appeal  to  my  friend  Mr.  Murphy." 

"We're  doing  well — very  well,  indeed.  I'd  rather 
have  the  two  blades  in  the  National,  of  course.  But  as  it 
is  we  can't  complain.  No,  we  certainly  can't  complain. 
Indeed  I'd  be  almost  inclined  to  admit  three  blades  and 
that  two  of  them  find  their  way  to  the  National,"  Mur- 
phy said,  chuckling  noiselessly. 

"You  hear  that,  Father  Devitt,  the  country  turning 
into  a  gold  mine  and  you  can't  leave  well  enough  alone," 
Monsignor  Macdonald  said  with  a  note  of  sternness. 
"Now  that  the  Scovell  property  is  settled  the  whole 
country  round  is  in  the  hands  of  the  tenants,  and  we 
want  ease  and  peace  to  enjoy  our  prosperity.  You  can 
fill  the  tumbler,  Dick.  That  claret  of  Mallon's  is  as  soft 
as  milk  on  the  palate.  Was  the  country  ever  quieter, 
Mr.  Foley?" 

"As  quiet  as  a  lamb,  Monsignor,"  the  Police 
Inspector  said  cheerfully.  "If  the  judges  go  on  getting 
white  gloves  at  the  Assizes  the  R.I.C.  will  be  out  of  a 
job." 


200  Conquest 

"  Don't  despair,  Foley,  the  Government  can  always  be 
trusted  to  provoke  a  row,"  McEvoy  said.  "Believe 
me,  you  won't  be  out  of  a  job  for  long." 

"I  cannot  agree  with  your  diagnosis,  McEvoy,"  Dr. 
Greany  said  with  a  frown.  "In  the  troubled  times  my 
duty  to  my  profession  compelled  me  to  steer  clear  of  the 
treacherous  waters  of  politics — I  had  patients  in  every 
camp.  But  the  distinct  leaning  of  our  present  Govern- 
ment to  the  Nationalist  side  has  altered  the  situation. 
It  is  a  Liberal  Government  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word, 
some  of  the  best  plums  of  the  legal  profession  and  of  my 
own  honoured  calling  having  been  given  to  moderate 
Nationalists.  I  have  become  a  member  of  the  United 
Irish  League." 

"Do  you  think,  Greany,  I'd  have  any  chance  of  the 
Crown  Solicitorship  if  I  became  a  member?"  Dick 
Kavanagh  asked  anxiously. 

"I  can  see  Home  Rule  looming  in  the  distance," 
Greany  said  oracularly, 

"You  can  see  through  a  pretty  thick  fog,  then,"  Father 
Devitt  said  sourly. 

"Greany  means  that  he  sees  a  job,"  McEvoy  said, 
with  a  curl  of  his  lip. 

"I  know  no  better  earnest  of  the  good  faith  of  the 
Government  than  that  they  should  give  office  to  sound 
Nationalists  of  good  standing  in  their  professions," 
Greany  said,  with  offended  dignity. 

"  The  Orangemen  see  in  it  a  proof  of  bad  faith — you  see 
they  don't  get  all  the  jobs — and  they  have  a  big  pull  in 
England,"  McEvoy  laughed.  "You'd  better  hurry  up, 
Greany.  It  mayn't  be  fashionable  to  be  a  Nationalist  in 
a  year  or  two." 

"I  have  perfect  faith  in  the  word  of  a  government — 
they  are  gentlemen,"  Greany  said  crushingly. 

"Political  gentlemen,"  McEvoy  said  lightly. 


Conquest  201 

"I  appeal  to  Mr.  Daly,"  Greany  said  heatedly. 

"A  government  has  been  known  to  keep  its  word," 
Jim  said  cautiously. 

' '  I  hope  to  God  they'll  break  it  this  time.  But  they're 
so  used  to  breaking  it  that  there's  little  fear  of  their 
keeping  it,"  Father  Devitt  said  vehemently. 

"Moderation,  Father  Devitt,  moderation,"  Monsignor 
Macdonald  said  placidly,  sipping  his  claret.  "I  have 
often  warned  you  that  the  only  road  to  safety  is  in  moder- 
ation. A  few  glasses  of  claret  at  dinner  and  a  glass  of 
punch  after  makes  one  see  the  world  as  it  is,  rosy  and 
comfortable.  What  can  you  expect  of  cold  water  but 
bile  ?  It  makes  a  sort  of  drunkenness  in  the  mind  that's 
worse  than  the  after  effects  of  bad  potheen  whisky.  If 
you'd  only  take  a  glass  of  wine  like  a  man  you'd  see  less 
harm  in  England." 

"'Twould  take  a  good  many  glasses  to  make  me  see 
any  good  in  what  they're  offering  us  now,"  Father  Devitt 
said,  with  a  gloomy  smile.  "I'd  as  soon  trust  old  Nick 
himself.  But  sure  England  and  Machiavelli  are  one 
and  the  same  thing.  I  was  reading  The  Prince  the 
other  day,  and  it's  a  complete  record  of  English  policy  in 
Ireland.  If  an  Englishman  is  honest  then  he's  the  great- 
est self-deceiver  under  the  sun.  The  Home  Rule  they're 
promising  us — it  wouldn't  at  all  surprise  me  but  they'd 
try  to  keep  their  promise  this  time — is  nothing  but 
another  halter  round  our  necks.  It's  the  biggest  attempt 
they've  made  yet  to  bribe  the  country  by  the  offer  of 
jobs.  We'll  go  on  taxing  you,  they  say,  and  you  can 
spend  the  money  without  any  responsibility.  The 
thing'd  break  down  in  five  years  and  we'd  be  disgraced 
for  ever.  I  think  well  of  my  country  but  we're  not  angels 
out  of  heaven.  It's  not  for  nothing  the  English  are  offering 
us  Greek  gifts :  they  want  to  prove  we're  unfit  for  Home 
Rule  by  making  it  impossible  for  us  to  administer  it." 


202  Conquest 

"You  give  them  credit  for  unusual  astuteness,"  Jim 
laughed. 

"They're  either  fools  or  knaves,"  Father  Devitt  said, 
with  a  shrug.  "They  can  take  their  choice  of  the 
dilemma.  The  Orangemen  are  shrieking  against  the  bill 
as  if  it  was  only  their  skins  were  in  danger.  I  have  no 
great  love  for  them,  but  it'll  be  a  good  job  for  the  whole 
of  Ireland  if  they  succeed  in  wrecking  the  bill  which'd  do 
us  a  sight  more  harm  than  it'd  do  them." 

"Then,  please  God,  we  can  go  on  as  we  are  and  no 
harm  done,"  Monsignor  Macdonald  said,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  "  No,  thank  you,  Dick.  I  won't  disturb  the  beef 
with  any  apple  tart,  excellent  as  it  is.  But  I  find  a  shav- 
ing of  cheese  not  so  deleterious — a  help  in  fact.  I  picked 
up  the  habit  at  Buxton,  where  I  sometimes  go  for  my 
health.  An  Orangeman  from  Belfast  introduced  me  to 
it.  He  was  a  queer  fellow,  that  Orangeman,  and  used 
to  wrangle  over  politics  like  Father  Devitt  there  till  I 
found  out  that  he  used  to  go  to  Aintree  as  regular  as 
myself,  and  from  that  day  on  we  quarrelled  peaceably 
over  horses  without  another  mention  of  King  William  or 
the  Pope.  The  dinner  does  you  credit,  Dick,  but  it's  a 
wife  and  not  Father  Lysaght  you  ought  to  have  sitting 
down  there  opposite  you." 

"Are  you  going  to  the  Horse  Show,  Monsignor?"  Dick 
asked  uneasily. 

"Am  I  going  to  my  bed  this  night,  young  man?  What 
about  one  of  the  Mallon  girls  for  him,  Father  Lysaght?" 

"He'd  have  to  go  to  daily  mass,"  Father  Lysaght  said, 
with  a  reproving  look  at  Dick. 

"That's  a  malady  they'd  grow  out  of  if  they  married 
steady  men,"  the  Monsignor  saifl  tolerantly.  "One  of 
'em'd  be  better  than  politics  for  you,  Dick.  They're 
warm  girls  with  at  least  ten  thousand  apiece,  and  you 
might  do  worse  than  not  let  the  convent  bag  it.  I  see 


Conquest  203 

we're  all  finished.    What  about  having  the  hot  water  in 
the  other  room,  and  a  game  of  Nap  in  the  name  of  God  ? " 


VII 

Con  Driscoll's  snug  farmhouse  drowsed  in  the  Au- 
gust heat.  The  elms  at  the  end  of  the  bawn  were  as  still 
as  the  duckpond  beside  the  gate.  The  lowing  of  a  cow 
in  the  near-by  paddock  seemed  to  come  from  afar.  Sheep 
hung  together  in  little  groups  as  if  seeking  protection 
from  the  heat  in  the  shadows  of  one  another. 

Mike  Driscoll,  standing  in  an  empty  cart,  held  up  to  his 
father  at  the  top  of  the  ladder  the  last  sheaf  of  wheat 
which  was  to  complete  the  stack.  Con  fixed  it  in  posi- 
tion, patted  it  fondly,  and  turning  half  round  on  the 
ladder  looked  admiringly  at  the  half  dozen  stacks  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  haggard. 

"That's  one  more  than  we  had  last  year  and  in  half  an 
acre  less  ground,"  he  said  slowly,  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  hang  motionless  and  detached  in  the  still  air. 

"  It's  the  superphosphate  did  it,"  Mike  said,  wiping  the 
sweat  from  his  tanned  face  with  the  already  wet  sleeve  of 
his  cotton  shirt. 

"It  had  a  hand  in  it,  no  doubt.  But  there  was  the 
fine  year  that  God  gave  us;  and  the  feeling  that  the  land 
was  as  good  as  our  own  so  that  we  put  our  hearts  into  it. 
And  it  is  our  own  now,  thanks  be  to  God.  You  can  see  a 
great  change  in  the  face  of  the  country  already." 

"There  hasn't  been  much  time  for  a  change  to  work 
in  Tullyfin  yet,"  Mike  said,  gathering  up  the  reins  from 
the  back  of  the  restless,  pawing  horse. 

"What  a  man  feels  in  his  heart  I  suppose  it's  easy  for 
his  eyes  to  see, ' '  Con  said  meditatively.  ' '  But  sure  even 
a  blind  man'd  see  what  a  differ  it  makes  to  own  your  own 
land  when  you  look  at  Mr.  Lentaigne's  property  that  was, 


204  Conquest 

and  Brazier's  and  all  the  rest  scattered  about  the  country 
that  the  tenants  bought  in  these  five  or  six  years  back. 
And  now  we're  going  to  put  a  crown  on  it  all  with  Home 
Rule,  please  God." 

"It'll  take  some  striving  for  that  yet,"  Mike  said  with 
a  frown,  jumping  lightly  out  of  the  cart.  "As  far  as  I 
can  see  everything  is  ready  here  now  for  the  threshing 
to-morrow.  My  mother  might  give  us  a  cup  of  tea." 

"She's  a  good  warrant  for  that,  and  I  got  a  whiff  of 
cake  from  the  oven  a  few  minutes  back,"  Con  said, 
descending  the  ladder.  "Though  it's  only  about  four 
o'clock  we've  put  in  a  good  twelve  hours.  As  the  last 
sheaf  is  up  we'll  take  a  rest  till  Betsy  brings  in  the  cows." 

Mike  led  the  horse  towards  the  stable,  his  father  walk- 
ing behind  the  cart  with  a  hand  resting  on  the  back  shaft. 

"  Is  there  anything  between  Betsy  and  that  young  man 
of  the  Sullivans?"  Con  said,  as  Mike  took  off  the 
harness. 

"  There  might  and  there  mightn't,"  Mike  said  stolidly. 

"I  wish  you  went  as  slow  in  your  notions  of  politics," 
his  father  said  drily. 

"Politics  is  far  easier  to  get  at  the  rights  of  than  a 
girl,"  Mike  said  pensively,  giving  a  slap  to  the  mare. 
"Hurry  on  into  your  box  with  you,  Kitty." 

"I  wouldn't  let  Molly  Jordan  get  the  better  of  my 
temper  if  I  were  you,"  Con  said  with  a  chuckle. 

"I  don't  give  a  thraneen  for  Molly  Jordan,"  Mike 
said  hotly,  pushing  the  heavy  cart  into  its  shed  as  if  it 
were  a  toy. 

"The  sooner  you  make  it  up  with  her  the  better  if 
Betsy  means  anything,  for  your  mother'll  want  some  help 
in  the  house,"  Con  said  coolly,  lighting  his  pipe.  "I 
like  a  little  fire  in  a  woman  myself.  Your  mother  has  a 
good  spark  of  it  to  this  day.  But  it's  all  the  more  reason 
for  a  man  to  be  even-tempered  or  there  might  be  a  con- 


Conquest  205 

flagration.  Come  along  in  and  have  a  cup  of  hot  tea  to 
cool  you.  If  you  were  only  more  biddable  about  politics 
now." 

"You  were  very  biddable  to  my  grandfather,  God  rest 
his  soul,"  Mike  said  with  a  touch  of  his  father's  irony. 

"We  hadn't  Home  Rule  in  our  hands  in  them  days," 
Con  said,  scratching  his  chin. 

"  It's  on  a  far  away  bush  it  is  still,  and  it's  many  a  thorn 
we'll  get  in  scrambling  for  it,"  Mike  said  with  a  firm  set  of 
his  lips. 

"It's  in  John  Redmond's  pocket." 

"It's  no  more  in  his  pocket  than  I  am — nor  within  his 
reach  either.  The  English  have  fooled  him  like  they 
fooled  many  a  good  man  before  him." 

"The  grace  of  God  has  touched  their  hearts  at  last,  I 
tell  you,"  Con  said,  stopping  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
kitchen  door  and  waving  his  pipe  argumentatively. 

"The  grace  of  God'd  shrivel  up  if  by  any  accident  it 
came  within  a  field's  length  of  one  of  'em,"  Mike  said  con- 
temptuously. 

"It  has  'em  in  its  grip  now,  I  tell  you,"  Con  said  con- 
fidently. "See  how  they're  putting  a  muzzle  on  the 
House  of  Lords.  At  long  last  they're  bent  on  doing  us 
justice.  It's  only  the  Orangemen  that's  giving  trouble 
now.  And  they'll  quieten  down,  the  poor  omadauns, 
when  they  know  that  we  don't  mean  them  any  harm." 

"You're  only  dreaming,  father,"  Mike  said,  with  a 
sweep  of  his  hand  and  a  crinkling  of  his  brow  very  like  his 
father's,  "for  what  would  the  Orangemen  be  kicking 
up  all  this  trouble  if  the  English  didn't  put  'em  up  to  it  so 
as  to  give  themselves  an  excuse  for  slipping  out  by  the 
back  door  when  they've  no  more  use  for  the  Irish  vote? 
What  harm'd  we  do  an  Orangeman  no  more  than  any 
other  Irishman?  Didn't  they  profit  by  all  the  land  agi- 
tation yourself  and  my  grandfather  suffered  for,  and  did 


206  Conquest 

we  grudge  it  to  them  ?  And  it's  they  were  able  to  drive 
a  hard  bargain  too,  and  get  more  out  of  it  than  ever  ye 
did.  Isn't  Miss  Diana  a  Protestant,  and  if  her  religion 
was  as  black  as  the  hob  of  hell,  is  there  a  Catholic  within 
miles  of  us  that  wouldn't  kiss  the  ground  she  walks  on? 
It's  the  crookedness  of  the  English,  I  tell  you,  that's 
at  the  back  of  it  all,  and  if  they  were  in  earnest  itself, 
which  they  aren't,  I  wouldn't  wipe  the  clauber  off  my 
shoes  with  the  mean  kind  of  Home  Rule  they're  talking 
of  giving  us." 

"It's  all  them  Gaelic  League  classes,  and  the  Co-opera- 
tive, and  them  Technical  Instruction  lectures  that's 
turned  your  head,"  Con  said  good-humouredly. 

"It  isn't  then — it's  only  kind  father  for  him,"  Mrs. 
Con,  who  had  been  for  some  time  standing  in  the  door- 
way, her  arms  akimbo,  her.  brown  hair,  showing  a  few 
strands  of  grey,  brushed  smoothly  away  from  a  centre 
parting  and  gathered  in  a  bun  rather  low  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  cried  out  with  a  laugh.  "  If  ye  aren't  the  dead 
spit  of  what  yourself  and  your  father  used  to  be,  Con, 
over  five-and-twenty  years  ago.  Only  that  God  gives 
ye  most  times  more  work  than  ye're  able  to  compass 
I  wouldn't  have  ease  or  peace  from  yeer  clatter  about 
Home  Rule.  It's  the  wonder  of  the  world  that  ye  haven't 
England  swept  off  her  feet  long  ago  with  all  yeer  talk. 
And  Mike'd  kiss  the  ground  Miss  Diana  walks  on,  would 
he  ?  I  wish  to  God  Molly  Jordan  saw  him  trying  to  do  it. 
If  he  had  the  courage  of  a  mouse  it's  kissing  Molly  herself 
he'd  be  and  bringing  her  in  here  on  the  floo%to  me  while 
I  have  any  strength  left  in  my  tongue  to  advise  her  about 
this  and  that." 

"Hear  her,  now,"  Con  said,  with  a  forced  sigh. 

"It's  one  of  them  Suffragettes  she's  in  training  for," 
Mike  said,  seeking  sympathy  from  his  father  with  a  dry 
laugh. 


Conquest  207 

Mrs.  Con  fanned  her  flushed  face  with  her  spotless 
white  apron. 

"Will  ye  be  going  and  washing  yeer  hands  ?  Don't  ye 
see  it's  dressed  I  am?"  she  said  with  a  grin,  making  way 
for  them.  "  If  Mike  is  such  a  daring  fellow  as  he  lets  on 
it's  Miss  Diana's  fingers  he'll  have  a  chance  of  kissing  in 
a  few  minutes  instead  of  her  footstep.  She's  going  up 
North  and  she  asked  Betsy  to  look  after  a  hound  pup  for 
her  while  she's  away.  She  sent  word  that  she'd  walk  him 
over  here  herself  about  four  o'clock  or  thereabouts." 

"Jim  Daly  isn't  fishing  our  bank  to-day  by  any  luck? " 
Con  asked,  with  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid. 

"I  wish  to  God  there  was  anything  like  that  in  it," 
Mrs.  Con  said  with  a  sigh.  "But  sorra  eye  she  has  in 
her  head  for  a  man  since  she  took  to  them  figaries  of 
politics.  Except  for  a  dog  or  the  like,  or  a  crowd,  she 
has  no  heart  left  in  her." 

"Is  it  a  Unionist  you'd  have  her?"  Mike  said 
indignantly. 

"It's  a  woman  I'd  have  her  and  not  a  hurdy-gurdy 
with  only  one  tune  to  it,"  his  mother  said  with  spirit. 

"She  goes  to  extremes  with  the  flag-waving,  no  doubt," 
Con  said  amicably.  "But  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  Miss 
Diana  to  give  a  good  account  of  herself  in  more  ways  than 
one.  Anyhow  she's  taken  lately  to  coming  to  Tullyfin  by 
the  river  bank  instead  of  round  by  the  road." 

"  Betsy  seen  young  Daly  down  on  the  bank  with  a  rod  a 
while  back,  and  I  put  his  name  in  the  pot  on  the  chance  of 
him  dropping  in  for  a  cup  o'  tea,"  Mrs.  Con  said  with  a 
studied  assumption  of  indifference. 

"Let  us  go  and  wash  ourselves,  Mike,  in  the  name  of 
God,"  Con  said  with  a  chuckle.  "Your  mother  is  like  a 
tricky  fish.  When  you've  made  up  your  mind  she's  gone 
off  with  herself,  there  she's  tugging  at  the  line  fresher 
than  ever." 


208  Conquest 

VIII 

Mrs.  Scovell  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  Chesterfield  in  the 
bay  of  the  long  music  room  at  Dalyhouse.  She  held  the 
Spectator  open  in  her  lap  but  her  eyes  wandered  to  Diana, 
who  was  swinging  a  mushroom  straw  hat  to  and  fro  as 
she  knelt  on  the  end  of  the  seat  and  gazed  moodily 
through  an  open  French  window. 

"I  was  once  as  willowy  as  you  are,  Di,"  the  mother 
said  with  a  faint  sigh. 

4 '  What's  wrong  now  ? ' '     Diana  asked  unfeelingly. 

"  I  like  a  rest  after  luncheon,"  Mrs.  Scovell  sighed  more 
deeply.  "  I've  had  worry  enough,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to 
be  any  help.  I ' ve  had  to  have  my  dresses  let  out  again — 
not  much,  but  it's  distressing.  And  that  Arabella  Daly 
keeps  her  figure.  She's  two  years  older  than  I  am." 

"Arabella  is  a  dear.  Heigh-ho,"  Diana  said,  jumping 
to  her  feet. 

"Dearer  than  your  mother?"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  with 
a  confident  smile. 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  mummy  darling.  There,"  she 
stooped  down  and  brushed  her  lips  on  her  mother's  fore- 
head. "You're  a  brick,  and  your  figure's  all  right — nice 
and  soft  and  comfy.  Arabella  is  rather  on  the  scraggy 
side." 

Mrs.  Scovell  patted  her  slightly  rounded  bust  com- 
placently. "Have  you  seen  her  lately?"  she  asked  with 
eager  curiosity. 

"This  morning." 

"You  didn't  go  in?"  her  mother  asked  timidly. 

"No,"  Diana  said  half  defiantly.  "This  nonsense 
about  my  not  going  there  is  a  bit  too  thick  though." 

"Your  father  has  been  very  tolerant  about — the  other 
things,"  her  mother  said  severely. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry.     I'll  keep  my  word." 


Conquest  209 

She  laughed  gaily.  ' '  Poor  old  boy.  He  jibs  at  a  gnat 
and  swallows  a  camel.  I  suppose  I  have  been  a  bit  rough 
on  him  though.  But  now  that  the  land's  settled  he 
might  withdraw  the  embargo  and  make  friends  with  old 
Pierce." 

"You  know  the  whole  county  thinks  he  has  been  too 
tolerant  with  you,"  her  mother  said  with  a  slight  frown. 
"You  should  have  heard  him  swear  the  night  you  were 
coming  back  from  jail.  I've  never  seen  him  so  angry. 
He  almost  cried  with  vexation,  said  he  could  never  hold 
up  his  head  in  the  county  again  and  swore  he  wouldn't 
let  you  into  the  house.  Yet  he  took  the  car  down  himself 
to  meet  you  and  mixed  with  that  dreadful  crowd  and  the 
tar  barrels  and  everything." 

"That's  father  all  out,"  Diana  said  with  a  laugh. 
"  That's  how  he'll  take  Home  Rule  when  it  comes.  You 
should  have  seen  him  at  the  station.  It  was  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  got  cheered  by  an  Irish  crowd,  and  any  one 
could  see  that  he  liked  it.  They  had  been  denouncing 
him  that  very  day  I  heard,  about  the  land,  but  they 
cheered  him  more  than  they  did  me.  It  was  a  game 
thing  to  come  and  meet  me — and  they  saw  it.  He's  more 
like  them  than  he  thinks." 

"Don't  worry  your  poor  father  more  than  you  can 
help,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  weakly.  "You  know  old  Daly 
has  treated  him  badly." 

"Nonsense.  It  was  all  a  fair  fight,  and  no  one  knows 
it  better  than  father.  His  row  with  Pierce  Daly  is  just  a 
tradition :  it  came  down  to  him  like  his  Unionism,  and  he 
doesn't  know  how  to  get  out  of  either  of  'em." 

Mrs.  Scovell  sighed  again :  "  It  would  be  nice  to  know 
Arabella — our  nearest  neighbour  too.  Even  her  sister- 
in-law,  Jasper  Levin's  wife,  speaks  well  of  her.  But  your 
father  will  never  give  in — he  was  in  love  with  her  once. 
Was  it  the  boat?" 


210  Conquest 

"In  love  with  her?  But  I  don't  see  how  that 
matters?"  Diana  said  with  a  puzzled  look.  "Pooh, 
what  nonsense.  Yes,  it  was  the  boat,"  she  added,  her 
eyes  sparkling  mischievously.  ' '  The  only  thing  I  learned 
by  going  to  jail  was  to  interpret  regulations  strictly. 
'Have  you  kept  your  promise  not  to  go  within  the  gates  of 
Scarty?'  'Yes,  your  worship.'  If  father  will  be  so 
stupid  what  can  you  expect?  I  drifted  down  in  the 
canoe  opposite  the  cedar  trees — there's  a  sort  of  back- 
water at  that  very  spot.  I  kept  well  out  from  the  bank. 
Arabella  sat  on  the  bank  and  old  Pierce  hadn't  to  move 
from  his  chair.  We  had  a  very  comfortable  talk." 

"I  don't  know  where  you  got  your  character  from — 
you're  not  like  your  father  nor  like  me,"  her  mother  said 
despairingly. 

"Outside  I'm  mostly  you,  thank  God.  Inside  I  think 
I'm  mostly  granny — Tullyfin,  not  Bally william,"  Diana 
said  composedly 

"  I  had  your  hair  certainly,  and  your  complexion " 

"Have,"  Diana  smiled. 

"  I  may  not  be  quite  a  wreck,  but  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as 
that,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  with  a  pleased  smile.  "But 
your  granny  Scovell  to  be  responsible  for  the  devil  in  you ! 
She'd  have  a  fit  if  she  heard  you." 

"We  took  different  turnings,  that's  all,"  Diana  said 
confidently. 

"  I  once  heard  she  had  a  liking  for  old  Daly — she  never 
spoke  to  him.  But  it  would  have  been  grotesquely 
impossible,"  her  mother  said  with  a  puzzled  laugh. 

"What  would?  They  are  very  much  alike,"  Diana 
said,  putting  on  her  hat. 

"Was  the  boy  there  to-day?"  Mrs.  Scovell  asked, 
after  watching  the  operation  for  a  few  seconds. 

"The  English  prig?     Thank  goodness,  no." 

"Louisa  Drumbeg  has  an  eye  on  him  for  Sophie,"  Mrs. 


Conquest  211 

Scovell  said  meditatively.  "I've  seen  him,  and  I  must 
say  he's  quite  distinguished  looking.  Louisa  met  him  at 
the  Levins,  who  are  making  a  fuss  over  him.  Sir  Silas 
writes  so  enthusiastically  of  the  boy's  future  that  Jasper 
wants  to  make  up  for  his  treatment  of  Arabella  by  mak- 
ing much  of  Jim.  Louisa  even  spoke  of  calling,  but  I 
warned  her  that  Arabella  wouldn't  be  at  home.  Dear 
Louisa  thinks  she  has  only  to  hold  out  a  hand.  Five 
daughters  are  rather  difficult  these  days  and  Roman 
Catholic  eligibles  are  few.  I  mentioned  the  Driscoll 
connexion — just  to  test  her.  But  she's  prepared  to 
swallow  even  that.  She  was  quite  sharp  with  me, 
seemed  to  think  I  was  putting  difficulties  in  her  way,  that 
I  had  an  eye  on  him  for  you  or  something." 

"Had  you?"  Diana  asked  coldly. 

"Of  course  you're  very  young.  And  there's  Frank 
Scovell?"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  hesitatingly,  flushing 
slightly. 

"Not  the  property,  thank  you.  I  hoped  you  had 
dropped  him." 

"I  suppose  I  have,  though  I'd  have  liked  you  to  have 
Dalyhouse,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  with  a  regretful  sigh. 
"So  would  your  father  in  spite  of  all  your  tantrums.  It 
breaks  his  heart  to  think  of  the  place  going  to  Frank." 

"If  I  could  marry  Dalyhouse  without  Frank  nothing 
would  please  me  better.  But — "  Diana  made  a 
grimace. 

"  I  know.  I  feel  like  that  about  him  myself.  But  it's 
hard  to  give  up  the  idea  because  of  the  place.  If  only  I 
had  a  son,  or  if  Frank  weren't  such  a  dull  stick,"  Mrs. 
Scovell  said  plaintively. 

"I'll  never  marry,"  Diana  said  decisively,  arranging 
rebellious  hair  under  her  hat  in  front  of  a  mirror  on  the 
wall.  "There  are  so  many  more  exciting  things  to  do." 

Mrs.  Scovell,  undisturbed,  watched  her  admiringly. 


212  Conquest 

"Your  father  is  sure  to  meet  him.  Who  knows  but 
Jim  might  be  the  means  of  healing  the  feud,"  she  said 
meditatively. 

"I'm  tired  of  hearing  him  discussed,"  Diana  said  petu- 
lantly, with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"The  Brazier  girls  are  after  him.  You'll  see  they'll 
take  to  cub  hunting  again  this  year.  Durkan  has  it 
from  his  nephew  at  Scarty  that  Simon  Lentaigne  is  lend- 
ing Jim  Daly  some  mounts,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  thought- 
fully. "Even  the  shopkeepers'  daughters  are  setting 
their  caps  at  him.  The  little  Mallon  girls  haunt  the 
Tubber  road  on  the  mere  chance  of  seeing  him." 

"You'll  quote  Nanny  next,"  Diana  said  ironically,  but 
with  a  slight  blush. 

Mrs.  Scovell  laughed  cheerfully.  "Dear  old  Rafter 
has  everything  settled.  It's  the  will  of  God,  she  says, 
that  sent  him  home  to  knock  all  the  nonsense  out  of  you. 
She  may  love  you  because  she  nursed  you,  but  a  Daly  is 
her  Lord  of  Creation.  King  Cophetua  and  .  .  .  She 
has  some  tale  of  meeting  you  in  the  glen " 

"It  was  a  pure  accident,"  Diana  said  heatedly,  flushing 
from  her  neck  to  her  hat. 

"  Of  course,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  with  a  complacent  look. 
"But  the  servants  will  gossip,  and  Helen  Lentaigne  wrote 
that  he  was  decidedly  attracted." 

" I'm  off  to  see  granny,"  Diana  said  hastily.  "If  you 
were  a  Sinn  Feiner,  mother,  you'd  know  that  we  occupy 
ourselves  with  other  things." 

"You  cease  to  be  men  and  women,  I  suppose?"  Mrs. 
Scovell  said,  getting  up  with  a  leisurely  smile.  "Well, 
well.  Tell  granny  that  I'll  come  to  see  her  every  day 
while  you're  away.  This  is  the  only  room  in  the  house 
that  doesn't  shriek  of  the  Dalys.  Your  grandfather 
made  it  by  roofing  in  the  two  wings." 

She  walked  in  silence  down  the  long  lofty  room. 


Conquest  213 

"I'm  leaving  the  pup  with  Con  Driscoll  till  I  get  back 
from  Bally william.  Rafter  might  make  up  some  story 
about  myself  and  Mike,"  Diana  said  a  little  shrilly. 

"I  think  not,  dear,"  Mrs.  Scovell  said  with  a  contented 
smile.  "But  you  have  the  queerest  circle  of  friends, 
Diana.  Your  father  has  the  patience  of  a  saint.  Those 
Driscolls  were  his  bitterest  opponents  over  the  land.  I 
don't  know  how  many  years'  purchase  they  have  deprived 
us  of." 

"Prevented  us  from  robbing  them  of,"  Diana  said 
mockingly. 

"I  never  argue  politics.  Thank  God  there  are  more 
sensible  things  to  talk  about.  I  hope  someone  will  call. 
Run  away  now  child  and  enjoy  your  walk." 

IX 

Diana  called  the  puppy  to  heel  on  Grange  Con  bridge. 
Should  she  go  by  the  road  or  by  the  bank  ?  She  felt  irri- 
tated and  worried.  Always,  before,  she  had  known  her 
own  mind  and  acted  on  it.  But  for  the  last  three  weeks 
— it  was  too  silly  and  disgusting.  It  had  been  such  a 
relief  to  get  away  from  the  gossip  of  man-hunting  and  do 
real  things.  Was  she  doomed  to  fall  into  the  rut  of  the 
Braziers  and  the  Beaumonts  and  talk  and  think  of 
nothing  but  men?  It  was  the  thinking  that  mattered. 
She  had  talked  at  school  and  at  home — one  couldn't 
escape  from  it,  but  this  was  different.  It  had  begun  in 
the  train,  something  that  vaguely  disturbed  her  and  put 
her  on  the  defensive.  She  leant  on  the  parapet,  staring 
down  the  Dalyhouse  bank.  There,  somewhere  by  the 
big  elm,  he  had  landed  the  trout.  Did  she  really  remem- 
ber it,  or  was  it  only  because  Helen  Lentaigne  so  often 
spoke  of  it?  She  crossed  over  to  the  other  side  of  the 
bridge  and  looked  up  towards  the  glen.  It  was  shorter 


214  Conquest 

by  the  road,  but  the  grass  was  more  pleasant.  That 
wasn't  even  honest.  The  genteel  little  Mallon  girls  were 
straighter.  Once  it  was  an  accident.  How  many  times 
had  it  been?  Five  or  six.  And  he?  He  had  been  there 
on  a  day  when  he  was  as  likely  to  catch  a  whale  as  a 
salmon.  To-morrow  she  was  going  to  Ballywilliam. 
Somewhere  in  her  breast  she  felt  a  little  empty  ache,  but 
she  whipped  her  thoughts  to  combat  it.  She  should  be 
at  her  real  work  again.  She  must  prepare  her  speech 
for  the  branch  meeting  in  Belfast.  It  would  be  such 
fun  going  there  from  Ballywilliam  of  all  places.  Things 
and  not  people  were  her  real  interest.  Ireland,  her 
wrongs  and  her  rights,  were  the  beginning  and  end  of  all 
her  interests.  This  other  feeling  happened  in  somehow, 
uninvited,  unwelcome.  It  was  some  weakness  which 
she  had  the  strength  to  overcome  when  she  became  con- 
scious of  its  presence.  It  was  dangerous  only  when  she 
was  off  her  guard.  It  was  least  harmful  when  she  was 
with  him,  for  then  her  antagonism  was  keenest.  .  .  . 
She  hesitated  for  a  moment  opposite  the  stile,  walked 
on  a  few  steps,  stopped,  called  back  the  pup,  turned 
round,  retraced  her  steps  and  crossed  the  stile.  It  was 
the  last  time  for  some  weeks,  perhaps  for  ever.  She 
wasn't  afraid  of  him.  She  thought  again  of  her  meeting 
in  Belfast,  of  her  speech.  She  formed  a  few  sentences. 
They  seemed  to  ring  hollow,  to  trail  off  into  nothingness 
among  the  reeds.  The  bulrushes  seemed  to  look  at  her 
with  his  level  eyes,  neither  accepting  her  nor  rejecting 
her,  just  weighing  her  in  a  balance.  He  thought  her  a 
fool,  laughed  at  her.  Not  actually,  but  she  knew  he  was 
laughing  behind  his  eyes.  His  reserve  of  judgment  was 
all  condemnation  of  her.  Sometimes  there  was  another 
look  in  his  eyes.  She  felt  hot  and  uncomfortable,  pulled 
off  her  light,  unlined  linen  coat,  fanned  herself  with  it, 
and  slung  it  across  her  shoulder.  Love,  if  it  meant  any- 


Conquest  215 

thing  at  all,  meant  some  respect  for  one's  ideas.  That 
other  look,  which  had  appealed  to  her  weakness,  was  mere 
pity  for  her  ignorance  and  folly — insult  added  to  injury. 
He  was  just  an  embodiment  of  the  pitying  contempt  the 
best  type  of  Englishmen  had  for  Ireland.  He  would 
marry  her  for  her  hair  and  her  eyes  and  her  silly  face — at 
least  he  thought  it  silly.  Men  did  that  and  women  sub- 
mitted to  it.  Marriage  was  a  companionship,  some 
community  of  thought  and  aim.  The  Lentaignes  had  it 
and  were  happy.  Her  father  and  mother?  They  were 
happy,  though  it  wasn't  easy  to  see  what  they  had  in 
common.  Anyhow  they  didn't  despise  one  another. 
She  stood  and  watched  a  water-hen  dive  quietly,  the 
water  rippling  gently  in  ever  widening  circles  round 
the  spot  where  it  had  disappeared.  The  pool  among  the 
reeds  was  quite  still  again.  He  would  go  out  of  her  life 
like  that.  She  stared  bleakly  at  the  smiling  water,  put 
her  hand  to  her  breast  to  try  and  still  the  aching  feeling. 
If  she  could  only  think.  He  shouldn't  look  at  her  like 
that — it  wasn't  fair.  It  was  a  mean  attempt  to  sap  her 
resolution.  There  was  nothing  in  common  between 
them.  She  was  Ireland.  He  had  taken  his  stand  with 
England.  She  would  make  him  see  that  a  woman  could 
live  her  own  life.  If  he  wasn't  a  traitor — no,  she 
wouldn't  call  him  that — he  was  blind,  blind.  He  was 
a  hanger-on  of  a  country  that  she  must  fight  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  mind  and  body — fight  him  even,  if  it  were 
necessary.  Ireland  was  right,  England  wrong.  She  was 
on  the  side  of  right ;  he,  with  all  his  cleverness,  was  wrong. 
He  was  merely  a  temptation  to  her  faith  in  Ireland. 
He  was  a  symbol  of  what  had  to  be  fought  and  broken. 

Round  a  bend,  in  the  shade  of  a  clump  of  willows,  she 
came  on  him  suddenly,  lying  on  his  side  on  the  grass. 
She  caught  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  the  look  she  hated, 
half  smiling,  half  quizzical.  She  blushed. 


216  Conquest 

"First  blood,"  he  said,  pitching  aside  the  book  which 
he  held  open,  on  the  grass,  and  jumping  up. 

"Fishing?"  she  said  disdainfully. 

"Waiting  for  you,"  he  said  with  an  admiring  look. 

She  stubbed  the  book  with  her  shoe  and  turned  over 
the  front  cover. 

"Izaak  Walton,"  she  said  with  a  little  disconcerted 
laugh.  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  read  him  with  all 
this  pretence  of  fishing." 

She  glanced  disapprovingly  at  the  rod,  the  basket,  and 
landing  net  yards  apart  on  the  grass,  as  if  he  had  pitched 
them  away  impatiently. 

"I've  been  doing  something  much  sillier  for  the  last 
three  weeks — pretending  I'm  not  in  love  with  you,"  he 
said  firmly. 

A  Painted  Lady  hovered  over  a  clover  blossom.  Her 
eyes  followed  it  hungrily.  In  some  way  the  exquisite 
feeling  of  happiness  which  filled  her  seemed  to  hang 
on  its  movements.  If  only  the  whole  world  could  be 
made  to  stand  still  and  remain  for  ever  just  as  it  was 
now.  The  gurgle  of  water  in  the  river,  the  faint  chirping 
of  innumerable  grasshoppers,  the  sharp  buzz  of  a  bee,  the 
whispering  of  willow  leaves  seemed  to  blend  with  the  glad 
beating  of  her  heart  in  a  sort  of  divine  harmony.  The 
butterfly  flew  slowly  towards  the  river,  and  disappeared 
under  the  bank.  One  of  the  sentences  she  had  thought 
of  for  her  Belfast  speech  recurred  to  her,  and  she  repeated 
it  mechanically.  It  was  only  the  old  weakness  after  all 
in  a  new  form.  It  could  never,  never  be.  Her  heart 
beat  painfully.  The  joy  had  all  gone  and  had  left  her 
weak  and  giddy. 

"Let's  sit  down,"  she  said  numbly.  She  sank  down 
quietly  where  she  stood,  and  sat  upright,  her  palms 
resting  on  the  cool  grass. 

"  Have  I  been  too  sudden  ? "  he  said  anxiously. 


Conquest  217 

"  This  is  some  new  game,"  she  said,  burying  her  hands 
in  the  deep  grass  for  support. 

"Oh,  be  serious,  Diana,"  he  said  sitting  down  opposite 
and  crossing  his  legs. 

"  Diana? "  she  said  mockingly  to  gain  time. 

"What  else?"  he  said  grimly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind.  I'm  serious  though.  Don't  spoil 
everything  by  this  nonsense." 

"But  I  love  you — have  loved  you  ever  since  I  saw  you. 
All  my  life,  I  think." 

"  Is  this  a  new  way  of  jibing  at  my  politics? "  she  said, 
suppressing  a  desire  to  kiss  the  eager  face. 

"Politics.  What  have  politics  got  to  do  with  it?  I 
love  you.  I'm  asking  you  to  be  my  wife." 

"  My  feelings  don't  matter,  I  suppose?  But  it's  all  in 
character.  England  all  over.  She  has  only  to  hold  up 
her  finger  and  the  world  must  grovel  at  her  feet,"  she  said 
angrily. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ? "  he  said  imperturbably. 

She  flushed  and  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "You're 
as  convincing  in  love  as  you  are  in  argument,"  she 
jibed.  "No  wonder  England  can't  govern  if  that's 
how  her  diplomatists  make  love.  You  should  hear 
the  perfect  lover — a  Sinn  Feiner  of  course.  I'm  Joan 
of  Arc  and  Kathleen  na  Houlihan.  He's  lyrical  on  my 
eyelashes  and  my  finger-tips.  I'm  a  blend  of  the 
Madonna  and  Venus.  I'm  a  poem  from  my  ear  to  my 
instep." 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,"  he  said. 

"I  won't  marry  you,"  she  said  firmly,  though  her  lips 
trembled  and  her  eyes  avoided  his. 

"  There's  someone  else  ?  You  seem  to  have  had  experi- 
ence," he  said  bitterly. 

"Lots.  But  there's  no  one,"  she  said,  hesitating 
between  resentment  and  a  desire  to  explain. 


218  Conquest 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question.  Do  you  love 
me?"  he  said  gently. 

"Don't,"  she  said  appealingly 

Something  in  his  look  roused  her  to  anger,  and  she 
said  vehemently,  "It's  not  fair  of  you  to  hector  me  like 
this.  You've  done  nothing  but  bully  me  and  sneer  at 
me.  Why  should  I  love  you?  Why  shouldn't  I  hate 
you?" 

"Good  God,"  he  said  helplessly.  "Bully  you  and 
sneer  at  you?  Why,  I've  worshipped  you — do  now, 
though  you're  angry  with  me.  Your  frown  only  made 
me  less  happy  than  your  smile.  Nothing  mattered  but 
you — to  see  you,  to  be  with  you.  And  when  that  was 
impossible,  to  think  of  you.  I  can't  make  you  love  me 
if  you  don't  feel  like  it,  but  to  hate  me.  Oh,  do  be  fair." 

"There,"  she  said  triumphantly.  "But  you've  so 
often  told  me  I'm  prejudiced  that  it  doesn't  surprise  me 
now." 

"You  are  a  bit,  you  know,"  he  said  with  a  puzzled 
frown.  "You're  not  thinking  of  our  rows  about  poli- 
tics?" he  added  after  a  pause,  with  a  boyish  laugh. 

"An  impassable  wall  divides  us,"  she  said  with  the 
gesture  of  life  and  melodrama. 

His  slightest  flicker  of  a  smile  added  fuel  to  her  flame, 
and  his  words  did  not  help  to  quell  it : 

"  No  wall  is  impassable.  And  it  must  be  a  tiny  wall  if 
it  exists  at  all.  I've  crossed  it  without  noticing  it." 

"I  haven't  your  agility  and  detachment  of  mind,"  she 
said  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  adding  quickly  as  if 
doubtful  of  the  efficacy  of  irony,  "I  love  my  country." 

"What  makes  you  think  I  don't?' 

"If  you  do  you  dissemble  your  love  pretty  cleverly," 
she  said  drily. 

"There's  too  much  at  stake  between  us,  Diana,  to 
quibble.  What  have  I  done?  You're  not  making  a 


Conquest  219 

barrier  of  persiflage?  I've  never  had  a  serious  discussion 
with  you." 

"Is  it  nothing  to  treat  me  as  if  I  wasn't  worth  taking 
seriously?"  she  said  angrily. 

"  But,  good  Lord,  it  wasn't  that.  I  took  you  seriously. 
I  was  thinking  of  you  then  and  not  of  politics.  If  I 
must  dot  the  i's,  I  love  Ireland  rather  too  much  for  my 
peace  of  mind.  I  was  fed  on  her  as  a  child,  and  I  can't 
drop  the  habit.  I  don't  speak  of  her  much,  just  as  I  can't 
speak  to  others  of  you.  But  she's  there  all  the  time  in 
my  mind  and  in  my  feelings." 

"Yet  you  became  a  Foreign  Office  clerk,"  she  said 
indignantly .  ' '  Why  did  you  do  it  ? " 

"Why  indeed?"  he  said  with  a  shrug.  "It's  a  rotten 
job.  But  it  pleased  the  mater  and  doesn't  matter  to  me 
for  the  moment." 

"How  could  you  feel  in  that  way  if  you  loved  Ire- 
land ? "  She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands  nervously. 
"At  the  best  it's  sheer  indifference.  You  simply  don't 
care." 

"But  I  do  care — care  tremendously." 

"When  I  knew  I  cared  I  had  to  give  up  everything." 

"And  I  admire  you  for  it.  But  there  must  have  been  a 
time  when  you  were  groping,  saw  no  definite  way  out, 
were  trying  to  make  up  your  mind.  That's  where  I  am 
at  the  moment.  I'm  trying  to  understand." 

"But  you've  definitely  gone  over  on  the  English  side 
by  taking  an  English  job." 

"Isn't  that  condemning  me  because  I'm  not  a  Sinn 
Feiner?  I  won't  press  the  point  that  all  Sinn  Feiners 
haven't  made  up  their  own  minds  on  the  question — I've 
met  some  who  are  civil  servants.  The  Redmondites  see 
nothing  wrong  in  my  position.  All  that  matters  to  me, 
however,  is  that  I  see  nothing  wrong  in  it.  The  old 
Foreign  Office  is  the  servant  of  the  crown  and  people  of 


220  Conquest 

Great  Britain  and  Ireland — even  Sinn  Fein  hasn't  yet 
separated  them.  You're  one  of  my  masters,  or  you  will 
be  when  you  get  the  vote.  As  for  being  English !  If  you 
marry  me  you'll  hear  me  abuse  England  till  you  wish  you 
had  never  heard  the  name." 

"You  laugh  at  me  for  attacking  her,"  Diana  said 
petulantly. 

"You  see  her  face  all  black.  I  see  a  white  or  a  drab 
patch  here  and  there,"  he  laughed.  "You  may  be 
right,  I  may  be  right.  What  does  a  difference  of 
opinion  in  politics  about  England  matter  if  we  love  one 
another." 

"  It's  impossible,"  she  said  fingering  the  grass  thought- 
fully. 

"Is  that  the  Italian  impossible  that  means  'Yes'?"  he 
said  hopefully. 

"Certainly  not.  Couldn't  you  join  our  party,  Jim?" 
she  asked  eagerly. 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

She  jumped  up  hurriedly  and  shouted,  "Lascar,  Lascar! 
Where's  that  puppy?" 

Jim  muttered,  "Damn  the  puppy,"  stood  up  and 
frowned.  "You  haven't  answered  that  question  yet,"  he 
said  doggedly. 

"If  you  were  only  half  as  persistent  in  groping  your 
way  into  being  an  Irishman  it  might  be  different,"  she 
said  regretfully. 

"It's  yes,  then,"  he  said  joyfully,  stretching  out  his 
hand  for  hers. 

"No,  don't  touch  me.  I  couldn't  stand  it,"  she  said 
excitedly,  moving  away  from  him.  "I  mustn't.  I've 
my  work  to  do  here.  It's  more  than  religion  to  me — 
more  than  love.  I  can't  leave  it,  I  can't.  It  would  be 
worse  than  apostasy.  Don't  make  me  miserable." 

"  Don't  be  afraid.     I  can  wait — now,"  he  said  grimly. 


Conquest  221 

"Next  week  you  may  be  more  of  a  woman  and  less  of  a 
martyr.  I'm  going  to  stay  with  the  Edwardes." 

"You're  an  English  brute.  But  I'm  glad  you're  com- 
ing up  North,"  she  said  with  a  smile.  "You  see  how 
impossible  it  all  is,"  she  added,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"Indeed?"  he  said  drily,  a  hungry  look  in  his  eyes,  as 
he  clasped  her  hand. 

"You  may  kiss  me — but  it  means  nothing,"  she  said, 
drawing  him  towards  her. 

"I'm  damned  if  I  do — on  these  terms,"  he  said,  shak- 
ing off  her  hand  roughly. 

She  smiled  through  half  lowered  lids.  "There's  more 
of  the  Irishman  in  you  than  I  thought,"  she  said  as  he 
moved  away  with  a  muttered  "Goodbye." 

"  Don't  forget  your  hat  and  your  rod,"  she  called  after 
him  gaily.  "Now,  Lascar,"  patting  the  hound's  head 
as  he  tried  to  lick  her  hand,  "we  can  have  our  tea  in 
comfort." 

X 

Jim  and  Father  Lysagnt  sat  in  armchairs  in  front  of  a 
cheerful  fire  in  Father  Lysaght's  sitting-room  in  the 
Presbytery  at  Lisgeela.  A  bronze  reading  lamp,  with  a 
low  green  shade,  lit  up  the  green  cover  of  the  centre  table 
but  left  the  rest  of  the  room  half  dark.  Occasionally  a 
flame  shot  out  from  a  hissing  coal  and  revealed  the  furni- 
ture, mostly  books  in  open  shelves,  a  few  chairs,  dark- 
green  curtains  on  the  windows  and  the  back  of  the  door. 
The  curtains,  the  priest  explained,  were  neither  for  orna- 
ment nor  to  keep  out  draughts,  but  to  hide  raw  pitch  pine 
the  look  of  which  he  detested.  Wind  howled  in  the  pop- 
lar trees  at  the  end  of  the  Presbytery  garden,  and  the  rain 
pattered  sharply  on  the  window  panes.  Jim  sat  well 
back  in  his  comfortable  chair,  his  feet  on  the  fender,  drew 


222  Conquest 


long,  slow,  regular  puffs  from  his  pipe  and  watched  medi- 
tatively the  figures  made  by  the  glowing  coals.  The 
priest  leant  over  the  side  of  his  chair,  held  an  open 
breviary  so  as  to  catch  the  light  from  the  lamp  and  read 
his  office.  His  rapid  muttering  made  a  curious  under- 
tone to  the  wind  and  rain.  He  shut  the  book  with  a 
snap,  knelt  for  a  few  seconds  on  his  chair,  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  threw  the  book  on  the  table,  stood  up, 
took  his  pipe  and  tobacco  box  off  the  mantelpiece,  and  sat 
down  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"So  much  done,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "You  could 
easily  be  in  a  worse  place,  Jim,  on  a  night  like  this.  I'm 
not  sorry  we  got  out  of  the  bishop  so  early.  A  short 
dinner  with  him  goes  a  long  way  if  you  knew  all  his  stories 
by  heart  twenty  years  ago.  We  11  have  a  quiet  smoke, 
and  a  cup  of  tea  later,  and  I'll  drive  you  home  about  ten 
o'clock.  I  promised  an  old  man  that's  dying  out  your 
way  to  look  in  on  him  then." 

"I  can  get  Pagan's  car.  It's  a  dreadful  night  for  you 
to  be  out,"  Jim  objected. 

"And  have  old  Fahey  complaining  to  St.  Peter  about 
me  if  he  died  during  the  night,"  the  priest  said  with  a 
whimsical  smile,  crushing  the  tobacco  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe.  "I'm  not  even  sure  of  being  left  in  peace  till  then, 
but  let  us  hope  for  the  best,  and  the  weather  may  cheer 
up." 

"You  could  get  one  of  the  young  men  to  go." 

"I  suppose  I  could.  But  dying  people  are  more 
cranky  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal. 
The  old  ones  like  to  have  the  old  man  they've  used  to  to 
show  them  the  road  in  the  end.  One  has  to  take  the 
rough  with  the  smooth.  Regularly  about  once  a  month, 
for  the  last  ten  years,  I've  been  called  out  of  my  warm 
bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  attend  an  old  colleague 
who'll  see  me  under  the  sod  yet.  Young  priests  are  apt 


Conquest  223 

to  get  sharp  over  trifles  like  that,  but  when  you're  on  the 
way  to  sixty  you  get  used  to  it." 

He  lit  his  pipe  and  puffed  for  a  while  in  silence.  "  I 
suppose  this  is  the  last  I'll  see  of  you  this  side  of  Christ- 
mas, but  I  hope  you'll  come  back  to  us  regularly  now?" 

"Rather." 

"The  old  man  was  hoping  that  there  might  be  some- 
thing between  yourself  and  Miss  Diana?"  the  priest 
said,  watching  a  smoke  ring  intently. 

"There  was — a  good  deal  of  nagging,"  Jim  said, 
emptying  his  pipe  in  the  fender. 

"Nothing  softer  than  that?" 

"She's  as  sexless  as  a  nun  or  a  suffragette,"  Jim  said 
wrathfully. 

"There's  a  tender  spot  in  many  a  nun,  and  I  wouldn't 
trust  one  of  them  suffragettes  out  of  my  sight,"  the  priest 
said  drily.  "A  healthy  amount  of  sparring  between  a 
man  and  a  woman  is  never  a  bad  sign,  and  often  wears 
out  any  crust  of  difference  there  might  be  between  'em. 
She  was  so  bitter  agin  you  to  me  that  I  was  almost  sure 
she  was  in  love  with  you." 

"She  has  no  heart,"  Jim  said  moodily. 

"She's  a  daughter  of  Eve,  and  it's  seldom  one  of  'em 
hasn't  a  taste  for  the  apple  and  for  sharing  it  with  a 
likely  man,"  the  priest  said  genially.  "These  days  she 
often  carries  it  in  her  pocket  for  a  bit  and  plays  with 
politics  or  the  like  for  a  while.  And  with  all  the  clatter 
and  excitement  she  might  sometimes  be  under  the  illusion 
that  her  heart  was  aching  for  a  cause  and  not  for  a  man. 
Sooner  or  later  foolishness  like  that  wears  away  of  itself, 
but  it's  liable  to  burst  any  minute  under  proper  pressure 
in  season.  You  saw  a  good  deal  of  her  when  she  was  up 
North,  she  told  me?" 

"Very  little,"  Jim  said  bitterly. 

"  You  could  hardly  expect  to  see  her  all  the  time.     My 


224  Conquest 

poor  boy,  you  must  be  very  hard  hit.  But  it's  only  a 
matter  of  time  till  her  'good  deal*  is  your  'very  little.' 
The  next  thing  I  expect  to  hear  is  that  she  has  a  call  to 
spread  the  cause  in  London." 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  know  her,"  Jim  said  gloomily. 

"I  saw  her  once  meeting  you  suddenly  opposite  the 
post-office,  and  I  haven't  been  dealing  with  women  for 
thirty  years  without  learning  about  their  ways.  They 
come  and  tell  me  this  and  that,  but  I  have  my  own  ways 
of  judging.  'Twas  only  for  a  second,  but  I  said  to  myself, 
'There's  a  job  for  you  one  day,  James  Lysaght.'  At  that 
stage  it's  more  the  brake  than  the  spur  they  generally 
need.  Have  you  asked  her  yet?" 

"She's  refused  me." 

"Was  it  after  last  Saturday  week?" 

"No.     Before  that." 

"Then  go  on  asking  her,"  the  priest  said  with  a  laugh. 
"She'll  be  sick  enough  if  you  don't  ask  her  again  at 
Christmas.  It'll  take  her  till  near  that  to  wear  out  the 
novelty  of  being  a  sort  of  national  hero.  It's  like  a  new 
toy  to  her  now,  but  she'll  tire  of  it  soon  enough  when 
you're  out  of  her  sight  for  a  while.  Maybe  I  oughtn't  to 
encourage  you  to  marry  a  Protestant,  but  she  has  a  'ace 
that  makes  me  forget  the  heretic  in  her.  And  who 
knows,  with  the  help  of  God,  but  she  may  yet  see  the 
light.  Anyhow  the  children'll  be  safe." 

"  Don't  separate  us  in  the  next  world  if  we  have  the 
luck  to  come  together  in  this,"  Jim  said  ironically. 

"You  must  take  your  risk  if  you  marry  a  Protestant. 
But  if  I  were  you  I'd  trust  God  to  let  her  down  light  since 
He  made  her  a  temptation.  Anyhow,  even  the  strictest 
theologians  have  left  a  few  back  doors  open  by  which  a 
Protestant  may  escape  hell,"  Father  Lysaght  said,  purs- 
ing his  lips  and  rubbing  his  chin. 

"How  considerate  of  'em,"  Jim  said  drily. 


Conquest  225 

"They're  great  men,  the  doctors  of  the  church.  I 
wouldn't  put  it  past  them  to  square  the  circle  yet,"  the 
priest  said  with  a  laugh,  settling  himself  back  comfort- 
ably in  his  chair. 

"No  wonder  the  Orangemen  are  suspicious  of  you." 

"  Did  you  find  them  very  bitter  agin  us  up  North  ? "  the 
priest  asked  eagerly.  "They  talk  a  power  I  suppose 
about  Home  Rule,  Rome  Rule?" 

Jim  nodded. 

"  Do  you  think  they  really  believe  it,  or  is  it  only  put  on 
to  delude  the  British?" 

"Oh,  they're  quite  serious — at  least  the  ordinary  run. 
Of  course  it's  a  good  catch-cry  in  Great  Britain  and  is 
exploited  for  that  by  many  who  know  better." 

"The  Irish  never  took  their  politics  from  Rome,  and 
more  power  to  them  for  it — and  they  never  will,"  the 
priest  said  fervently. 

He  relit  his  pipe,  puffed  it  for  a  while  in  silence  and  said 
quietly,  "It's  the  misfortune  of  the  Church  that  she's 
loaded  down  with  a  lot  of  rubbish  of  laws  and  rules  and 
regulations  about  her  rights  and  powers  that  have  come 
down  from  the  dark  ages  and  that  she  hasn't  the  courage 
to  rid  herself  of.  She's  like  an  old  woman,  God  forgive 
me  for  saying  it,  who  keeps  by  her  every  rag  of  clothes 
she  ever  wore  since  she  was  a  baby  in  arms  and  goes  on 
pretending  at  eighty  that  she  can  wear  any  day  she  likes 
the  bib  or  the  petticoat  she  wore  at  her  mother's  breast. 
She  was  no  worse  than  her  neighbours,  better  if  anything, 
when  she  made  out  that  she  had  rights  over  the  bodies 
of  kings  and  peoples,  could  set  up  kings  or  pull  them 
down,  and  force  people  from  their  allegiance.  She  burnt 
heretics,  or  got  them  burned  when  every  Government  in 
Europe  killed  everyone  who  disagreed  with  them.  It's 
many  a  long  day  since  she  could  burn  a  cat,  let  alone  a 
heretic,  even  if  she  wanted  to  do  it,  in  the  most  Catholic 


226  Conquest 

country  in  the  world  without  being  had  up  before  a  civil 
court  for  it.  All  those  things  are  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne, 
but  Protestants  can  fling  them  in  our  face  because  we  go 
on  pretending  they're  alive.  But  what's  the  use  of  talk- 
ing about  that  when  an  Irish  Catholic  Nationalist 
wouldn't  touch  the  politics  of  Rome  with  a  barge 
pole  " 

"The  Church  is  a  bit  autocratic  even  in  Ireland,"  Jim 
said  with  a  smile. 

"It's  a  queer  mix-up,"  Father  Lysaght  said  with  a 
laugh.  "You  have  the  English  Government  hand  and 
glove  with  the  Pope.  They  don't  like  him  nor  the  re- 
actionary politics  of  the  Vatican — in  England.  But, 
they  say  to  themselves,  the  Pope  is  the  very  man  for  us  in 
Ireland.  We  may  be  a  progressive  Government  in 
England,  but  we're  an  autocracy  in  Ireland.  The  Vati- 
can doesn't  believe  in  popular  government,  so  we'll  use 
it  as  a  tool  to  keep  the  rebellious  Irish  in  their  place.  The 
Pope  claims  the  right  of  controlling  this  and  that.  No 
Catholic  country  in  the  world  now  admits  his  claim,  but 
we'll  admit  it.  We'll  give  him  the  schools  or  the  like 
and  he'll  keep  the  people  quiet  over  the  land  and  Home 
Rule." 

Jim  laughed. 

"No  wonder  you'd  laugh,"  the  priest  said  with  a 
shrug.  "You  go  up  North — you  can  hear  it  here  from 
your  uncle,  Jasper  Levin — and  the  Orangemen  say  to 
you:  'See  them  dreadful  priests  with  the  education  of  the 
country  already  in  their  grip — they'll  have  our  schools 
under  the  Pope  the  day  Home  Rule  comes.  It'd  be  as 
good  as  a  play  if  the  country  hadn't  to  suffer  for  it. 
Whatever  political  power  the  Church  has  in  Ireland 
comes  to  it  through  the  Union.  There's  every  fear  that 
down  it'll  go  flop  when  Irish  Catholics  get  control. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  harder  the  Orangemen  beat 


Conquest  227 

the  drum  and  the  longer  they're  able  to  keep  off  Home 
Rule  the  better  the  Vatican  will  like  it." 

"What  about  the  bishops?" 

"Bishops  are  bishops  all  the  world  over,  but  all  the 
same  I'd  like  to  give  the  poor  devils  their  due,"  Father 
Lysaght  said,  resting  his  pipe  on  his  knee.  "It's  a  trying 
position  for  a  saint,  let  alone  an  ordinary  human  being. 
I  know  nearly  all  the  bishops,  and  on  the  whole  they're 
not  a  bad  sort.  Politically  they  have  to  balance  on  the 
edge  of  a  razor.  They  have  to  keep  in  with  the  people 
and  they  have  to  keep  in  with  the  Vatican.  Getting  to 
be  a  bishop  at  all  is  a  sign  of  a  safe  man  that  knows  his 
way  round.  Within  the  memory  of  man  none  of  'em  was 
ever  known  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  his  job.  A  bishop 
who  has  ambitions  to  be  an  Archbishop  or  a  Cardinal 
inclines  towards  the  politics  of  the  Vatican.  Those  that 
are  satisfied  with  being  merely  bishops,  as  soon  as  they've 
got  their  job,  incline  towards  the  politics  of  the  people. 
But,  except  in  a  fit  of  temper  like  Deehan,  they're  all 
careful  to  avoid  extremes.  If  you  ask  me  whether  they 
want  Home  Rule  or  not  I'd  say  that  nearly  every  one  of 
'em  is  tugged  in  opposite  directions.  They  have  a  certain 
amount  of  power  now,  and  they  know  that  they  run  the 
risk  of  losing  it  by  Home  Rule.  But  in  their  hearts 
they're  all  Irishmen  and  have  at  least  a  sentimental 
hankering  after  Home  Rule.  It's  pull  devil,  pull  baker, 
with  them.  They  have  no  love  for  England  nor  for 
medieval  Vatican  politics,  but  they  love  their  own  power 
in  spite  of  their  professional  humility  and'd  hate  to  give 
it  up.  But  in  a  pinch  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  even  a  bishop 
to  take  a  risk  for  his  country.  In  any  case  the  Protestants 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  them.  Under  Home  Rule  they'd 
be  so  busy  defending  their  own  power  against  their  Cath- 
olic subjects  who  are  supposed  to  be  under  their  thumbs, 
that  it  is  not  thinking  of  worrying  Protestants  they'd  be." 


228  Conquest 

"Are  the  priests  as  sound  Orangemen  as  the  bishops 
and  the  Pope?"  Jim  asked  derisively. 

"The  priests  have  the  politics  of  the  people.  If  they 
haven't  they're  soon  made  to  feel  it.  There  are  over- 
bearing priests,  and  tyrannical  priests,  and  avaricious 
priests,  and  some  may  be  no  better  than  they  might  be, 
but  for  the  most  part  they're  hard-working,  decent  men 
who  have  taken  up  a  job  and  do  it  as  best  they  can. 
They're  men  and  not  shining  angels.  The  people  take 
religion  from  them,  but  turn  their  backs  on  their  politics 
unless  it's  an  echo  of  their  own.  If  a  football  can  be  said 
to  lead  a  mob,  then  they're  often  leaders.  The  people 
put  up  with  a  good  deal  from  them,  but  the  one  thing 
they  won't  stand  from  them  is  politics  made  in  England 
or  made  in  Rome." 

"Then  you  think  Home  Rule,  Rome  Rule,  all  non- 
sense?" 

Father  Lysaght  threw  out  his  hands  despairingly. 
"I  don't  think  about  it,  man.  I  know  it  as  certain  as 
that  I'm  sitting  here.  One  of  the  things,  and  the  chief  of 
'em,  that  keeps  the  Church  what  it  is  in  Ireland  to-day, 
and  not  like  what  it  is  in  France  or  Italy,  is  that  the 
country  is  still  under  the  foot  of  England.  In  the  mem- 
ory of  the  people  England  still  stands  for  religious  as  well 
as  political  oppression.  They  love  the  priests  that  said 
masses  for  them  and  attended  the  dying  in  the  Penal 
times.  But  they  hate  any  clerical  encroachment  on  their 
liberty.  When  the  country  has  a  Parliament  of  its  own, 
and  political  differences  have  to  be  fought  out  within  the 
country  and  not  against  England  on  the  Home  Rule  issue 
alone,  then  the  priest  will  have  to  clear  out  of  politics 
here  as  elsewhere.  The  Irish  are  a  religious  people,  but 
half  their  religion  is  pride  that  it  is  the  one  thing  England 
was  never  able  to  take  from  them.  The  priests  keep 
their  heads  above  water  in  Ireland  to-day  by  forgetting 


Conquest  229 

every  musty  political  principle  they  learned  at  college. 
Like  the  people,  thank  God,  they  take  their  politics  from 
Ireland  and  not  from  Rome.  And  Irish  politics  are 
liberty  and  equality  and  not  clerical  domination.  If  the 
priests  ever  try  to  run  Papal  politics  in  Ireland  the 
Catholics'll  give  'em  shorter  shrift  than  the  Orangemen. 
The  bishops  have  tried  it  scores  of  times,  but  it  has 
always  ended  in  failure." 

"Then  unless  the  people  themselves  are  bigots  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  Orangemen  could  still  breathe  under 
Home  Rule? "  Jim  said,  preparing  to  light  a  fresh  pipe. 

The  priest  looked  at  the  clock.  "Don't  light  that 
yet — the  tea'll  be  in  in  a  minute,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 
"You're  a  queer  fellow,  Jim,  to  be  catechizing  me  like 
this  and  you  knowing  more  about  the  Pope  and  nearly 
as  much  about  the  people  as  I  do  myself.  The  people 
are  political  bigots  if  you  like — if  in  this  age  of  the  world 
you  can  blame  men  for  thirsting  for  liberty  and  not  being 
happy  till  they  get  it.  As  for  religious  bigotry,  you've 
only  to  walk  down  the  town  of  Lisgeela  to  get  your  answer. 
Some  of  the  best  shops  in  the  place  are  Protestant  shops, 
and  there  aren't  enough  Protestants  in  the  whole  district 
to  support  one  decent  shop.  There's  a  lot  of  foolish  talk 
among  children,  but  it's  only  a  sort  of  lingering  memory 
of  the  bad  times.  Two  gossoons  may  bandy  words  about 
the  Pope  and  Proddy-woddies,  but  religion  doesn't  keep 
a  ha'p'orth  of  custom  out  of  any  Protestant  shop.  And 
there's  no  more  respected  man  in  the  town  than  Mr.  Elli- 
son, the  Protestant  rector.  I've  read  in  the  Unionist 
papers  of  cases  of  religious  intolerance  about  here — the 
boycott  of  a  Protestant  or  the  like,  but  everyone  in  the 
place  knew  he  was  boycotted  for  politics  and  not  for 
religion.  Lord  Drumbeg,  who's  more  Catholic  than  the 
Pope,  was  boycotted  more  than  any  man  in  the  whole 
country.  But  sure  you  know  this  well.  Is  your  grand- 


230  Conquest 

father  a  religious  bigot?  Or  your  cousin  Con  Driscoll, 
or  that  ruffian  Dick  Kavanagh,  or  any  Catholic  you  know 
for  that  matter?  Except  maybe  Drumbeg,  and  he's 
a  Unionist.  I  don't  say  that  there  isn't  some  religious 
bigotry  up  North.  The  religions  there  are  more  evenly 
divided.  They're  like  fighting  cocks  of  more  or  less  equal 
strength,  and  the  nuts  from  the  shipyards  are  convenient 
weapons.  But  it's  largely  a  case  of  using  religion  to  stoke 
up  their  political  fervour.  The  Catholics  make  a  politi- 
cian of  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  break  Orange  heads  in  her 
honour  on  Lady-Day.  The  Orangemen  break  Catholic 
heads  on  the  twelfth  of  July  in  remembrance  of  a  battle 
that  wasn't  fought  on  that  day  at  all,  and  to  honour  a 
Dutchman  who  had  an  alliance  with  the  Pope.  Catho- 
lics are  to  blame  as  well  as  Protestants.  I  once  went  to 
an  archaeological  meeting  in  Derry,  and  one  of  the  priests 
of  the  town  pulled  a  face  on  him  as  long  as  Carson's  when 
I  told  him  the  name  of  the  hotel  I  was  going  to  stay  at — I 
picked  it  out  of  the  Railway  Guide.  ' The  Orange  Hotel, ' 
he  said  horrified.  'If  they're  top  dog  up  here,  as  you  say,' 
I  said,  'then  I'll  probably  get  a  good  bed  and  a  decent 
glass  of  whisky,'  and  sure  enough  I  did.  Horace 
Plunkett  and  his  co-operatives  were  doing  a  good  deal  to 
do  away  with  the  bitterness  on  both  sides,  and  was 
getting  Orangeman  and  Catholic,  priest  and  parson,  to 
see  that  they  had  more  in  common  than  hatred  and  a 
taste  for  breaking  one  another's  heads,  but  now  the  fat 
is  all  in  the  fire  again.  The  English  imperialists  have 
discovered  Ulster  as  a  weapon  to  smash  the  Liberals. 
Carson  has  become  an  Orangeman  to  save  the  Empire. 
Bigotry  is  to  be  let  loose  in  Ireland  again.  'Pity  the  poor 
Ulster  Protestant  and  save  him  from  the  ravening  maw  of 
the  wicked  Pope,'  will  be  shouted  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Great  Britain  to  rouse  English  Protestantism 
to  its  duty  of  throwing  over  Asquith.  We're  in  for  bad 


Conquest  231 

times,  but  sure  it's  only  another  page  in  the  long  record  of 
England's  misdeeds.  But  I'm  dry  with  all  this  talk. 
Thank  God  there's  the  clatter  of  a  tray  outside  the  door 
and  we'll  have  our  tea.  Keep  out  of  politics,  Jim  boy; 
it's  a  crooked  game." 


PART  THREE 


"THIS  stuff  ought  to  be  put  on  ice,"  Bateson  said  with 
a  bored  look  at  the  hock  cup  which  he  had  mixed  with 
care. 

"That  will  do,  I  think,"  Jim  Daly  said  with  a  critical 
but  approving  look  at  the  table  laid  for  luncheon. 

He  moved  some  flowers  unnecessarily. 

"The  Liberals  are  making  worse  than  their  usual  mess 
of  Ireland, ' '  Phipps  said  from  behind  the  Observer.  ' '  We 
handed  it  over  to  them  happy  and  contented  and  they've 
turned  it  into  a  bear  garden." 

"  Damn  backwoodsman  cheek — with  your  gun-running 
Carsons  and  Tory  mutiny  in  the  army,"  Bateson  said 
with  mild  indignation,  stifling  a  yawn. 

"Let's  clear  out  now.  No,  Bateson,  you  don't.  No 
more  smoking.  She  ought  to  be  here  any  moment, ' '  Jim 
said,  with  a  frown  at  Bateson  and  an  anxious  look  at  the 
table. 

Bateson  pocketed  his  cigarette  case  with  a  sigh. 

"You  should  have  taken  her  to  the  Savoy,  or  left  all 
this  to  Simpson,"  Phipps  said  with  a  withering  look  at  the 
mess  Bateson  had  made  on  the  sideboard.  "However, 
something  may  yet  be  done,"  he  added,  touching  a 
button  near  the  fireplace.  "Amateurs  interfering  with 
meals  are  like  Liberals  trying  to  govern." 

"She  wished  to  come  here,"  Jim  said  moodily,  still 
brooding  over  the  table. 

"Who's  doing  the  chaperon?"  Phipps  asked. 
232 


Conquest  233 


"Mrs.  Leggett." 

"Another  of  those  damn  Liberal  wives!  However, 
she's  pretty,"  Phipps  conceded  doubtfully. 

"  Yessir?"  a  manservant  said. 

"Clear  up  all  this,"  Phipps  said  with  a  vague  wave  of 
the  newspaper.  "And  see  that  everything's  right." 

"Yessir." 

"Don't  touch  the  table,  Simpson,"  Jim  said,  again 
moving  some  flowers. 

"Cut  out,"  Phipps  said,  shepherding  Jim  and  Bateson 
out  of  the  dining-room.  He  looked  at  Simpson,  who  said 
with  his  eyes,  "You  can  leave  it  to  me,  sir." 

A  friendship  begun  at  Winchester  and  surviving  Oxford 
had  led  to  the  taking  in  common  by  the  three  friends  of  a 
house  in  St.  James's  Place.  Profound  diversities  of 
opinion  were  bridged  by  habit,  a  good-humoured  toler- 
ance, and  a  common  interest  in  social  work.  They  were 
non-resident  members  of  an  Oxford  Settlement  in  Rother- 
hithe  and  ran  a  boys'  club  near  the  Surrey  Docks. 
Phipps  was  a  Conservative  member  for  Loamshire, 
vaguely  supposed  to  be  promising.  Bateson  belonged  to 
the  left  wing  of  the  Liberal  Party,  had  the  promise  (which 
the  party  managers  always  forgot  when  opportunities 
arose)  of  a  seat.  He  used  the  whip  or  the  scorpion  as  the 
subject  of  his  articles  in  the  advanced  Radical  Press  was 
the  Unionist  Party  or  the  chiefs  of  his  own  party. 

"Keep  Mrs.  Leggett  near  you,  Phipps,"  Jim  said,  as 
they  crossed  the  hall  to  their  common  sitting-room. 
"She  has  her  knife  in  Bateson.  I'll  have  Miss  Scovell." 

"  I  was  wondering  why  the  unusual  thoughtfulness  for 
me,"  Bateson  said  drily. 

"  I've  got  Aunt  Sarah  for  you — at  least  she  may  come," 
Jim  said  cheerfully. 

"Good  of  you,"  Bateson  said  with  no  excess  of 
enthusiasm. 


234  Conquest 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  front  door.  Phipps  took  up 
the  Nineteenth  Century.  Bateson's  fingers  again  strayed 
to  his  cigarette  case.  Jim  flicked  imaginary  dust  off  the 
sleeve  of  his  morning  coat,  his  eyes  on  the  door. 

"Mr.  Dale." 

Jim  sighed  but  said  pleasantly,  "How  d'you  do, 
Dale?" 

Bateson  lit  a  cigarette. 

Dale  fixed  Phipps  with  his  monocle. 

"Thought  you  were  in  Ulster  drilling?"  he  said 
jeeringly. 

"  Smith  and  Bonar  Law  have  gone  over.  Phipps  is  an 
Orangeman  who  has  never  been  in  Ireland,"  Bateson 
said,  exhaling  a  luxurious  puff. 

"Law-abiding  Tories,"  Dale  began. 

"Major  and  Mrs.  Levin." 

"Glad  you  were  able  to  come,  Aunt  Sarah,"  Jim  smiled 
at  the  short,  stout,  placid  woman  who  towed  a  tall  gaunt 
man  in  her  wake.  "Settled  in  at  the  War  Office,  Uncle 
Peter?" 

"  Mrs.  Leggett.     Miss  Scovell." 

Jim  shot  past  his  uncle,  greeted  Mrs.  Leggett,  a 
vivacious  little  brunette,  perfunctorily,  and  seized 
Diana's  hand.  He  had  seen  her  yesterday  driving  a  four- 
in-hand  along  Piccadilly  in  a  Suffragette  procession,  but 
years  seemed  to  have  divided  Saturday  from  Sunday. 
Twenty  hours  at  most,  and  yet  it  had  felt  like  half  a 
lifetime. 

"You've  come  at  last,"  he  whispered. 

"No  nearer,"  she  said  firmly,  releasing  her  hand 

It  was  that  first  look  of  hers  that  always  gave  him  a 
new  hope — something  in  the  depths  of  her  big  blue  eyes 
that  answered  the  hunger  in  his  heart.  But  it  was  again 
only  the  old  illusion  that  had  mocked  him  so  often  for 
three  years. 


Conquest  235 

"She  made  the  speech  of  the  meeting,"  Mrs.  Leggett 
said  enthusiastically.  "It's  a  pity  she's  not  as  sound 
on  the  Irish  question  as  she  is  on  Women's  Rights." 

"  I  can't  understand  why  women  bother  about  politics 
— such  a  pretty  girl,  too,"  Mrs.  Levin  said  stolidly.  "We 
didn't  in  India,  did  we,  Peter?" 

"No  such  rot,"  Major  Levin  growled. 

"I'm  in  politics,"  Mrs.  Leggett  said  with  a  look  and 
intonation  that  challenged  the  major  and  his  wife  to  deny 
that  she  was  a  pretty  woman. 

Simpson  announced  luncheon.  On  the  way  in  Bateson 
informed  the  Major,  "Lifted  old  Leggett  into  the  House 
and  is  now  pushing  him  towards  the  Cabinet." 

"Sensible  woman,"  the  major  said  gruffly.  "No 
damned  nonsense  about  the  vote  there." 

"We  are  very  angry  with  you  naughty  soldiers  over 
the  Curragh  incident,"  Mrs.  Leggett  said  when  they  had 
taken  their  places  at  table,  wagging  a  playful  finger  at 
the  major. 

"Soldiers  shoot  only  Nationalists  in  Ireland,"  Diana 
said  sweetly. 

"Don't  see  what  else  Gough  could  have  done.  An 
Irish  Protestant  to  shoot  down  other  Irish  Protestants! 
It's  unthinkable,"  Major  Levin  said  with  an  uncomfort- 
able wriggle. 

"  The  politicians  were  behind  it,  eh,  Phipps  ? "  Dale  said. 
Phipps  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "We  scored  off  the 
Liberals  anyhow,"  he  said  with  a  grin. 

"A  glorious  victory,"  Dale  said  ironically.  "Tories 
used  to  boast  of  loyalty  to  the  King  and  Constitution.  As 
a  party  they  never  had  much  vision,  but  they  were  careful 
of  their  skins.  Now  they're  slitting  their  own  throats." 

"  Dale  is  playing  the  stage  Irishman,"  Phipps  jeered. 

"  I'm  talking  English  politics,"  Dale  said  with  a  shrug. 
"  Try  and  imagine  me  a  Tory  with  a  little  intelligence — if 


236  Conquest 

it's  not  too  fantastic  to  credit  a  Tory  with  intelligence. 
What  do  I  see?  My  property  threatened  by  the  1909 
Budget,  my  privileges  threatened  by  the  veto  on  the 
House  of  Lords.  Hitherto  the  King  and  the  Con- 
stitution have  been  at  once  my  privilege  and  my  pro- 
tection. My  existence  depends  on  their  maintenance. 
Revolutions  and  rebellions  are  for  wicked  Radicals  and  the 
proletariat.  I  and  Arthur  Balfour  and  the  few  Tories 
with  a  glimmering  of  reason  see  all  this.  The  'have 
nets'  are  getting  the  upper  hand  of  the  'haves.'  They 
are  the  more  numerous,  but  are  acting  constitutionally. 
We  are  distressed,  but  we  do  not  get  into  a  panic.  The 
brakes  are  getting  worn  out,  but  they  can  still  keep  back 
the  wheels.  But  we  reckon  without  our  backwoodsmen. 
They  get  into  a  panic.  They  get  an  idea — the  first  in 
their  lives — and  like  new  wine  in  old  bottles  it  will  burst 
them.  Carson  gave  it  to  them.  The  Smiths  and  the 
Bonar  Laws  are  jubilant.  With  a  whoop  they  are 
flourishing  the  knife  with  which  they  are  about  to  cut  the 
throat  of  Toryism  in  England.  Carson's  blessed  word 
'hypothetical'  won't  save  the  Tory  Party  in  the  day 
of  doom.  And  what  is  the  magic  ?  You  can  see  the  Old 
Bailey  mind  working  behind  the  madness.  How  would 
the  lawyer  put  it?  We  can't  fight  the  'have  nets'  on  the 
straight  issue  of  property  and  privilege.  They  are  too 
many  for  us.  Let  us  confuse  the  issue,  rouse  their  preju- 
dices, divide  them.  Many  of  the  'have  nots'  are  still 
sound,  intolerant  Protestants :  let  us  appeal  to  their  bigo- 
try. They  have  some  sort  of  distorted  idea  of  patriotism 
slumbering  beneath  their  greed  for  a  living  wage :  let  us 
hypnotize  them  into  the  illusion  that  the  security  of 
England  is  threatened.  Ulster  is  the  trump  card  that 
will  win  us  back  what  we  have  lost.  We'll  trip  up  the 
Rads  on  their  Home  Rule  Bill.  Simpson,  don't  take 
away  that  beef." 


Conquest  237 

"He  thought  you  were  lunching  on  your  toshy 
speech,"  Phipps  said  gruffly. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  if  your  party  had  the  sense  to  lunch 
on  my  speech  and  digest  it  they  wouldn't  be  committing 
harikari,"  Dale  said  blithely.  "If  I'm  longwinded  it's 
because  I'm  playing  the  part  of  a  disillusioned  Tory  sing- 
ing the  swan  song  of  his  party." 

"Well?"  Bateson  said  with  a  grin. 

"Why  labour  the  point?"  Dale  said  with  a  shrug. 
"Responsible  leaders  of  the  Tory  Party  are  preparing  an 
armed  rebellion  against  the  Crown  and  Constitution." 

"Against  the  damned  Liberals  only,"  Major  Levin  said 
excitedly. 

"Against  the  Crown  and  Constitution  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland,"  Dale  said  firmly.  "They  have  gone 
farther,  they  have  corrupted  the  officers  of  the  King's 
army  to  disobeying  the  orders  of  the  King." 

"Come  now,"  Levin  said  irritably. 

"I'm  speaking  as  a  constitutional  Tory.  I  recognize 
that  the  King  governs  through  his  ministers,"  Dale  said 
with  a  smile. 

"The  Cabinet  caved  in,"  Levin  grunted. 

"Bateson  may  wish  to  defend  them?"  Dale  said 
ironically. 

"Not  I — the  weak-kneed  crew,"  Bateson  growled. 

"They  couldn't  run  the  risk  of  breaking  up  the  party," 
Mrs.  Leggett  said  defensively. 

"At  the  moment  I'm  only  tracing  the  nemesis  of  the 
Tory  Party,"  Dale  said  with  a  lift  of  his  eyebrows.  "I 
leave  the  Liberals  to  Mrs.  Leggett  and  Bateson.  Any- 
how, they  have  given  a  moment's  respite  to  my  beloved 
Tories.  Where  have  I  left  Carson  and  Bonar  Law  and 
Galloper  Smith  and  the  rest  of  my  backwoodsmen?" 

"Aren't  you  making  too  much  of  what's  largely  bluff  ? " 
Levin  said  uneasily. 


238  Conquest 

"The  backwoodsmen  may  be  bluffing,  but  they  have 
raised  an  army  in  Ulster  that's  not  all  bluff,  my  friend," 
Dale  sa4d  seriously.  "Ulster  Protestants  armed  with 
machine  guns  and  rifles  are  not  safe  men  to  play  hokey- 
pokey  with.  They  are  capable  of  mistaking  hypotheses 
for  facts  and  may  precipitate  the  destruction  of  the  Tory 
Party  at  any  moment.  But  whether  Ulster  fights  or  not, 
what  have  the  Smiths  and  the  Carsons  and  the  Laws 
succeeded  in  doing  for  their  party  and  for  England? 
They  have  taught  the  'have  nots'  the  methods  and  uses 
of  direct  action.  They  have  brought  Parliament  into 
derision.  They  have  justified  armed  rebellion.  The 
upholders  of  the  Crown  and  Constitution  have  gone  amok. 
In  their  madness  they  are  straining  every  effort  to  des- 
troy their  only  protection.  If  Tory  idiocy  drives  Eng- 
land into  becoming  a  proletariat  republic  where  a  Tory 
cannot  show  his  head,  we  may  expect  to  find  there  statues 
to  Carson  and  Law  and  Smith  with  inscriptions,  'To  the 
mad  prophets  who  showed  us  the  way. ' " 

"We  don't  think  so  badly  as  that  of  Sir  Edward 
Carson,  do  we,  Peter?"  Mrs.  Levin  said  archly. 

"  I  won't  have  a  word  said  against  Sir  Edward  Carson," 
Diana  said  with  a  laugh.  "If  he  weren't  leading  the 
Orangemen  we'd  be  glad  to  have  him  in  Sinn  Fein.  He 
takes  no  nonsense  from  England." 

"Behold  your  first  fruits,  Phipps,"  Dale  said  drily. 

"Oh,  we  owe  Carson  a  great  deal — we  admit  it  freely," 
Diana  said.  "While  you  Redmondites  and  the  old  stuffy 
Liberals  were  talkee-talkee  he  was  taking  action.  We 
got  the  idea  of  the  volunteers  from  him.  And  the  gun- 
running  shows  what  a  man  he  is.  Very  soon,"  she  added, 
mysteriously,  "we  too  may  have  rifles  and  machine 
guns." 

"Good  God,"  Levin  said,  "even  Liberals  wouldn't 
allow  rebels  to  arm?" 


Conquest  239 

"Only  Orangemen  are  allowed  to  rebel  with  impun- 
ity," Dale  said,  helping  himself  to  wine.  "In " 

"You're  not  going  to  let  Dale  make  another  speech, 
Jim?  What  about  coffee  in  the  common  room?" 
Phipps  said  sharply.  "He  missed  the  Speaker's  eye 
several  times  lately — Lowther's  bored,  I've  no  doubt — 
and  he  wants  to  fire  it  off  here." 

"Barring  rhetorical  trimming  he  seems  all  right,"  Jim 
said  moodily. 

"My  thanks  to  the  Foreign  Office,"  Dale  said,  with  a 
mock  bow.  "But  they  know  something  of  Carson  there, 
I  understand.  His  defence  of  the  Empire  is  creating  a 
cheerful  expectation  of  its  downfall  in  more  than  one 
foreign  chancellery." 

"Trust  the  Liberals,  Mr.  Dale,"  Mrs.  Leggett  said 
cheerfully,  "when  the  opportune  moment  comes  they  will 
deal  firmly  with  the  situation." 

"Any  fear  of  that  Serbian  business  drawing  us  into  a 
European  war,  Jim?"  Bateson  said  irritably.  "What 
with  Liberals  who  won't  govern  and  Tories  who  have 
created  one  rebel  army  and  are  provoking  another  into 
existence,  I  see  no  other  way  out  of  the  mess." 

"What  about  coffee,  Aunt  Sarah?"  Jim  said,  with  his 
best  imitation  of  his  Uncle  Silas's  manner  of  ignoring 
awkward  questions. 

II 

Jim  saw  Diana  frequently  during  the  hot  July  days. 
They  rode  together  in  the  Park  before  breakfast,  but 
throughout  the  day  she  was  occupied  with  some  myster- 
ious business  in  the  City.  Once  he  lunched  with  her  at 
Mrs.  Leggett's,  and  several  times  he  met  her  out  at 
dinners  and  dances.  She  was  mildly  lionized,  partly  as  a 
suffragette,  partly  as  an  Irish  patriot  who  gave  trouble 


240  Conquest 

to  the  Redmondites,  but  mostly  for  her  hair,  her  eyes, 
her  wonderful  complexion  and  a  mouth  and  chin  that 
seduced  even  Devereux,  one  of  Carson's  chief  aids,  from 
his  drillings  at  Portadown  for  a  whole  fortnight. 

Jim  counted  the  hours  that  kept  them  apart,  but  was 
always  restless  and  dissatisfied  when  they  met.  He  was 
not  jealous,  and  had  no  reason  to  be,  but  she  was  as  firm 
as  ever  in  refusing  to  marry  him.  He  had  made  a 
hundred  resolutions  never  to  raise  the  question  again, 
but  he  could  not  resist  it  when  they  were  alone  together. 

For  some  years  she  had  been  quite  frank  about  her  love 
for  him. 

"Don't  spoil  everything  for  me,  Jim,"  she  said  one 
morning,  as  they  walked  their  horses,  her  eyes  fixed 
vaguely  on  the  absurd  Albert  Memorial  looming  out  of  a 
golden  haze  in  the  distance.  "  I  love  you.  I've  told  you 
so  a  thousand  times.  I  love  you  so  much  that  I'm  afraid 
to  touch  your  hand.  If  I  kissed  you  I  should  never  let 
you  go.  It's  as  much  as  that.  It's  no  use  talking  to  me 
of  the  inevitable  psychology  of  it.  Inevitable  psycho- 
logy is  all  rot.  I've  felt  like  that  for  three  years.  It  has 
been  hell,  but  I've  fought  against  it  and  won.  It  may 
be  cruel  to  you,  but  I  have  suffered  torture.  I  may  be 
weak,  but  I  can  do  it,  and  I  will.  It  may  be  unfair  to 
you.  It  is  unfair  to  you.  But  I  can't  help  that.  It 
may  not  be  the  way  women  act  in  books  or  in  life  either — 
other  women.  But  I'm  trying  to  explain  myself.  I  may 
be  vain,  I  may  be  anything  you  choose  to  say — you  have 
the  right  to  say  almost  anything.  If  you  give  me  up 
and  marry  another  woman  I  can't  blame  you.  I'd 
probably  hate  her,  but  I'd  go  on  loving  you.  I  don't 
mind  grovelling  to  you.  Though  it  isn't  all  grovelling, 
for  it  shows  me  my  own  strength.  Call  it  madness,  if 
you  like.  No,  don't  speak.  You  think  I'm  merely 
muddled  and  vain.  But  I'm  not.  I  may  be  in  many 


Conquest  241 

things,  but  not  in  this.  I  see  something  that  I've 
got  to  do — that  I  must  do  to  keep  my  soul  and  my  self- 
respect.  It's  not  that  I  pit  a  cause  against  you.  I  want 
you  both.  It's  no  use  your  saying  that  I  can  have  both 
together.  If  you  knew  what  I've  been  doing  in  London 
for  the  last  fortnight  you'd  know  I  cannot — not  yet  any- 
how. We've  failed  to  do  things  in  Ireland  up  to  this 
through  not  sticking  enough — enough  people  didn't  stick 
long  enough,  I  mean.  Some  always  did,  thank  God,  but 
never  so  much  as  now — nor  so  many.  Don't  push  me 
into  despising  myself.  For  that's  what  would  happen  if 
I  married  you.  I'd  be  a  traitor  not  only  to  myself  but 
to  all  those  I  work  with — to  Ireland." 

An  impatient  exclamation  was  on  his  lips  but  he 
checked  it.  There  was  no  use  battling  against  the  look 
that  had  now  come  into  her  eyes — almost  exaltation. 

"Well,  you  haven't  attacked  me.  That's  a  change  for 
the  better,"  he  said  ruefully. 

She  laughed  merrily.  "Poor  old  England  is  so  silly 
when  you  come  to  see  it  at  close  quarters  that  I  don't 
think  it  can  do  you  much  harm,"  she  said  maliciously. 

"What  are  you  doing  over  here?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"What's  the  Foreign  Office  doing  about  Serbia?"  she 
asked  demurely. 

He  laughed.  "Don't  burn  your  fingers,"  he  said 
seriously. 

"I  don't  think  they  care  enough  to  bother  about  us, 
no  matter  what  we  do,"  she  said  contemptuously. 

"The  tail  of  an  overfed  lion  can  be  pulled  once  too 
often,"  he  said  sententiously. 

"They  give  Carson  rein  enough,"  she  said  indignantly. 

"Carsonism  isn't  Sinn  Fein,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"It  doesn't  mean  separation.  It  doesn't  seem  to 
threaten  English  security.  It's  a  move  in  a  party  game. 
It's  a  threat  of  a  brick  in  a  family  row  over  Imperialism 

16 


242  Conquest 

and  a  hundred  home  party  issues.  It  cuts  deeper,  of 
course;  but  England  won't  see  that  till  the  danger  yawns 
open  before  her  and  then  she'll  muddle  through.  If  we're 
drawn  into  a  war  the  Tory  Imperialists  will  see  their 
chance  in  another  direction  and  Carsonism  will  be  put  on 
the  shelf." 

' '  The  English  have  no  principles, ' '  she  said  with  a  sneer. 
"They're  always  muddled  about  them,  but  they're 
there  all  right.  And  she  has  prejudices  that  lie  very 
deep.  Patriotism  isn't  an  Irish  monopoly." 

"An  Englishman  will  do  anything  for  a  price,"  she  said 
with  a  knowing  look. 

"So  you've  been  buying  arms — oh,  you'll  get  English- 
men to  do  that,"  he  said  with  a  frown.  "But  there  are 
things  Englishmen  won't  do  for  a  price — I've  been  seeing 
it  for  the  last  few  weeks — on  principle,  too.  And  there 
are  things  they  won't  do  from  habit  and  prejudice — let 
you  take  Ireland  off  their  hands,  for  instance.  Less  than 
any  time  in  their  history  they  won't  let  you  do  it  now." 

"England's  difficulty  is  Ireland's  opportunity,"  she 
said  confidently. 

" Perhaps,"  he  said  moodily.  "But  you  have  a  better 
weapon  than  a  few  discarded  rifles." 

She  jerked  her  rein,  urged  her  horse  to  a  gallop  and 
threw  over  her  shoulder:  "What  do  they  know  of 
justice?" 

In  a  few  minutes  he  drew  abreast  of  her.  The  Row 
was  clear  along  the  stretch  by  Knightsbridge  Barracks. 

"It's  the  only  place  in  London  where  I  can  breathe," 
she  said,  giving  her  willing  horse  his  head. 

A  policeman  held  up  a  warning  hand. 

"In  Dublin  he'd  have  fired  at  us,"  she  said  with  a 
grimace  when  their  pace  had  again  slackened  to  a  walk. 

"No.  He'd  have  shouted:  'More  power  to  you,  Miss 
Diana.  It's  a  fine  race,  glory  be  to  God, ' "  Jim  said  with 


Conquest  243 

a  laugh.  "Still  I'm  glad  you  can  admire  any  English 
institution." 

"Admire?  I  merely  acknowledge  in  the  English  a  cer- 
tain orderly  stupidity  in  dealing  with  themselves.  In 
dealing  with  others  they're  stupid  tyrants." 

"Is  Bateson  a  stupid  tyrant?" 

"You'd  condemn  that  method  of  argument  in  me. 
What  is  one  man  in  forty  millions?" 

"But  there  are  thousands  of  Batesons — hundreds  of 
thousands  a  little  less  articulate — with  all  his  passion  for 
liberty  and  honour  and  justice.  Millions  have  it  in  a 
muddled  sort  of  way.  I'd  go  further  and  say  that  the 
great  majority  of  Englishmen  have  deep  down  in  them  a 
sense  of  fair  play." 

"  Ireland? "  she  said  mockingly. 

"I  admit  Ireland  is  an  argument  against  me.  It  is 
England's  ghastly  failure.  But  I'm  not  going  to  let  it 
blind  me  to  what  is  good  in  England." 

"How  can  you  defend  her,  Jim?"  Diana  said  sadly. 
"You  know  how  she  has  treated  Ireland.  It  makes  my 
blood  boil.  It  shows  what  a  chasm  divides  you  and 
me." 

"But  I'm  not  defending  her  treatment  of  Ireland.  I 
go  further  than  you  in  condemning  the  stupidity  of  it,  the 
folly  of  it — its  wickedness  if  you  like.  Almost  every 
mistake  that  one  country  could  make  in  governing  an- 
other England  has  made  in  Ireland.  I'm  merely  trying 
to  look  over  the  high  wall  of  prejudice  and  misunderstand- 
ing— largely  built  by  England  I  admit — that  divides  the 
two  countries.  I'm  trying  to  see  the  English  side  of  the 
question  as  Bateson  and  many  Englishmen  see  the  Irish 
side." 

"Through  English  Society  over  your  mess  of  pottage," 
she  jeered.  "Well,  what  do  you  see?" 

"Among  other  things  that  England  has  never  been  able 


244  Conquest 

to  govern  Ireland,  that  it  never  can  govern  it,  that  it  has 
no  right  to  try." 

She  pulled  up  her  horse  and  stared  at  him.  ' '  Oh,  Jim, 
Jim,"  she  said  brokenly,  her  eyes  swimming.  Her  horse 
pawed  the  ground  restlessly  and  backed  out  in  the  fair- 
way. When  the  two  horses  were  walking  side  by  side 
again  she  said  in  a  worried  tone : 

"But  you're  still  in  the  Foreign  Office?" 

"If  we  tide  over  this  mess — Draycott  hopes  we  shall, 
and  he's  doing  everything  that  a  man  could  do  to  keep 
Europe  from  cutting  its  throat — I'm  going  to  resign." 

"Then  you'll  join  us — it  will  be  glorious,"  she  said,  her 
eyes  glowing. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  Krag  rifles,"  he  said  drily. 

"But  they're  Mausers — the  latest  pattern,  and  made 
by  one  of  the  best  German  firms,"  she  said  eagerly. 
"They  were  ordered  by  the  Orangemen,  but  Fingelstein 
let  us  have  them  cheap.  He's  in  sympathy — "  she  bit 
her  lip  and  flushed.  "I  oughtn't  to  tell  you  this — still 
it's  different  now,"  she  said  nervously. 

"I've  heard  nothing,"  he  said  with  a  frown.  " Except 
that  Germany  is  pretty  thorough.  For  God's  sake, 
Diana,  keep  out  of  all  this.  You're  playing  with  fire." 

"You're  not  going  to  join  us,  then?"  she  said  with  a 
cold  ring  in  her  low  pitched  voice. 

"Good  Lord,  no.  I'm  not  going  to  play  with  pop-gun 
revolutions.  This  shilly-shally  Government  are  to 
blame,  of  course.  They  should  have  stopped  the  Carson 
bluff.  But  they'll  stop  your  lot  all  right.  It  will  be  the 
same  old  game  over  again — England  provokes  a  revolu- 
tion in  Ireland  and  will  shoot  down  the  revolutionaries 
regretfully  in  the  name  of  law  and  order." 

She  looked  at  him,  half  furiously,  half  bewildered. 

"You  can  see  all  that  and  you  won't  act?"  she  said 
indignantly. 


Conquest  245 

"There's  a  vulgar  saying  that  a  live  dog  is  better  than 
a  dead  lion,  and  another  that  one  doesn't  save  one's  life 
by  committing  suicide.  Like  all  lying  proverbs  they 
have  a  little  truth  in  them.  I'm  not  against  rebellions. 
With  a  just  cause  and  even  a  faint  chance  of  success  I'm 
all  for  'em.  We  have  a  just  cause  but  we  have  no  chance 
of  success.  Not  even  one  in  a  thousand.  Failure  is  a 
dead  certainty.  There  have  been  men,  and  there  still 
are  men,  thank  God,  to  whom  the  knowledge  of  failure  is 
no  bar — they  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  have  kept 
the  idea  of  liberty  alive  in  the  world.  But  I'm  not  one 
of  them.  I  see  other  ways,  and  I  can  only  follow  what  I 
see.  Why,  England  could  put  an  army  into  Ireland  in  a 
week  that  would  drive  both  Sinn  Fein  and  the  Orangemen 
into  the  Atlantic." 

"She's  tried  it  before  and  failed,"  Diana  said  con- 
temptuously. 

"What  you're  really  counting  on  is  that  she  won't  do 
it,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "For  years 
England  has  had  a  struggle  within  herself  between  an 
idealism  founded  on  right  and  justice  and  morality,  and 
Realpolitik — it  comes  from  the  mixture  of  Celt  and  Teu- 
ton in  almost  every  so-called  Englishman.  At  her  worst 
she  was  never  absolutely  ruthless  even  in  Ireland.  Her 
best  hasn't  come  on  top  yet,  but  it's  coming.  At  the 
moment  governing  England  is  a  blend  of  the  good  ele- 
ment and  the  bad,  but  the  trend  is  pretty  obvious.  The 
Irish  Home  Rule  Bills,  rotten  as  they  are,  are  a  sign.  But 
every  step  towards  right  rouses  a  furious  reaction,  and 
progress  often  has  the  appearance  of  a  setback." 

"Words,  words,"  she  said  sadly.  "Just  to  excuse 
yourself  for  doing  nothing.  Your  grandfather  is  right. 
You've  been  corrupted  here." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  resignedly.  "But  prejudice  can't 
blind  me  to  all  facts.  A  new  way  of  looking  at  things  is 


246  Conquest 

arising  in  England.  Don't  be  a  party  to  spilling  blood 
uselessly  for  what  England  will  give  you  freely  in  a  few 
years." 

She  laughed  ironically. 

"England  yields  to  force  and  to  nothing  but  force,"  she 
said  confidently.  "She  has  only  two  weapons — hypo- 
crisy and  the  mailed  fist.  We've  had  both.  We  see 
through  one  and  aren't  afraid  of  the  other." 

"Shall  we  have  another  gallop,  or  have  you  had 
enough?"  he  said  with  a  wry  smile. 

"Thank  God,  my  work  here  is  done,"  she  said  bitterly. 
"You  talk  of  a  new  outlook,  a  new  morality.  I  see 
nothing  but  Tango  teas  and  night  clubs  and  Liberal  hy- 
pocrisy over  a  promised  gift  of  a  penny  rattle  to  Ireland, 
and  Unionist  gloating  over  Carsonism  and  some  scoffing 
at  Votes  for  Women. 

"  Let's  be  getting  back,"  she  added  wearily.  "  If  you 
won't  be  a  man,  Jim,  what  are  you  going  to  do? " 

"I  shall  try  and  help  England  to  discern  her 
conscience." 

"A  wonder  worker,"  she  jeered.  "And  how  does  the 
magician  set  out  to  achieve  the  impossible?  Preach 
abstract  ideas  to  the  readers  of  the  Referee  and  the  Win- 
ning Post — the  English  governing  classes?" 

"That  too,"  he  laughed.  "But  I  begin  with  a  sugar- 
coated  pill.  I've  been  making  it  in  my  idle  time — lots  of 
it— at  the  P.O.  It's  a  history  of  the  Czechs,  Slovaks, 
Croats,  and  Slovenes." 

"Who  on  earth  are  they?" 

"Irelands  under  Austria.  The  reactionary  press  will 
swallow  it  whole  as  the  tyrant  is  German." 

"You  mean  England  will  pick  up  from  it  some  new 
tricks  to  play  off  on  us.  Jim,  you're  nothing  but  a  child. 
I  suppose  that's  why  I  love  you  so  much  when  I  ought  to 
hate  you.  I  must  be  off — but  as  you're  a  convert  on  the 


Conquest  247 

way  I'll  make  another  effort  to  talk  sense  to  you.  Are 
you  free  at  four  to  take  me  for  a  spin?" 

"  If  only  you  had  one  spark  of  common  sense,"  he  said 
severely. 

She  gave  him  a  provocative  glance  and  said  demurely 
as  she  moved  off,  "You  wouldn't  love  me  then,  of  course. 
A  man  who  hopes  to  influence  England  by  abstract  ideas 
could  only  love  a  fool.  At  four,  then,  I'll  expect  you," 
she  called  back  over  her  shoulder. 


Ill 

Jim  had  arranged  to  take  his  holidays  early  in  July,  but 
Diana's  visit  made  him  exchange  with  Bunty  Peveril, 
who  shared  his  room  at  the  Foreign  Office  and  wrote  vers 
libre  while  Jim  struggled  with  his  history  of  the  Austrian 
Slavs.  Diana  left  suddenly  at  the  beginning  of  the  last 
week  of  July  with  no  explanation  beyond  a  telephone 
message,  which  Jim  didn't  get  till  hours  after  she  had  left 
town.  Fortunately  Bunty's  holidays  were  to  have  begun 
on  the  morrow,  so  Jim  decided  to  take  his  at  once  if  he 
could  be  spared  from  the  office.  He  tore  up  a  telegram 
cancelling  a  long-standing  engagement  to  attend  Violet 
Edwardes's  wedding,  called  up  her  brother  Stephen  on 
the  telephone,  and  arranged  with  him  to  go  to  Belfast 
the  following  night  by  the  Midland  and  Heysham.  He 
then  called  up  his  Uncle  Silas,  who  damned  him  for 
interrupting  his  dressing  for  dinner,  but  saw  no  difficulty 
about  an  immediate  holiday. 

"  The  state  of  Europe  is  damn  dicky — worse  than  ever 
I've  known  it.  But  the  Austrians  are  gentlemen.  They 
always  meet  us  half  way.  It's  the  Germans  butting  in. 
But  we  see  our  way  out  of  the  wood.  Thinking  of 
resigning?  What  damn  nonsense  is  that?  You  expect 
too  much,  Jim.  Why,  I  was  ten  years  older  than  you  are 


248  Conquest 

now  before  I  got  any  work  to  do.  Have  patience  and 
it'll  come.  Yes,  I  know  you  have  some  special  know- 
ledge of  Austria.  Thanks,  my  boy — very  interesting 
indeed,  very  interesting.  But  I  find  it's  safer  in  diplo- 
macy to  keep  to  certain  main  lines  and  not  bother  about 
complicated  detail.  Enjoy  yourself.  I'm  going  to  the 
Duke  for  the  twelfth  as  usual — we'll  have  everything 
straight  by  then.  No,  I  won't  hear  another  word  about 
your  resignation.  Come  and  see  me  when  you  get  back 
and  everything  is  quiet,  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

Jim  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  smile.  The  British 
Empire  was  a  wonderful  institution.  The  old  wagon 
lumbered  along  creaking  loudly  at  every  joint,  with  axles 
bent  and  wheels  loose.  In  a  bad  rut  the  sleeping  driver 
woke  up  for  a  somnolent  moment,  cracked  his  whip  more 
from  habit  than  for  any  purpose,  and  sank  again  into  a 
comfortable  snooze  on  top  of  the  heavy,  ungainly,  jolting 
load,  while  the  oxen  plodded  along  heedlessly. 

"  It's  all  a  jolly  lark,"  Stephen  Edwardes  said,  attacking 
his  second  helping  of  roast  mutton  in  the  dining  car  of  the 
train  for  Heysham. 

"  The  drilling,  I  mean.  It's  pretty  stiff  on  me  though. 
Swotting  with  a  crammer  all  the  week  in  London,  and 
the  double  journey  and  my  company  drill  every  week- 
end." 

His  fresh  young  face  didn't  show  fatigue,  but  he  sighed 
heavily  as  he  helped  himself  to  red-currant  jelly. 

"What's  it  all  for?"  Jim  asked. 

"Hanged  if  I  know — to  spite  the  Government  or  the 
rebs  or  something.  But  it  sets  up  the  fellows  no  end. 
They  used  to  be  such  a  lurching  lot  of  beggars,  and  see 
em  now. 

"The  newspapers  say  wonderful  things  of  you." 

Stephen  winked.  "There's  a  lot  of  bunkum,  but  it's  a 
spiffing  rag  for  all  that.  It's  jolly  bad  luck  on  me  to  have 


Conquest  249 

to  leave  it  all  and  go  to  Sandhurst  at  the  end  of  the  hols. 
The  men  are  as  keen  as  mustard." 

"Have  you  arms?" 

"Good  Lord,  no.  We  form  fours  and  all  that,  and 
route  marches  and  things.  You  can't  do  much  in  a  day 
a  week,  you  know.  Some  of  the  Militia  Johnnies  and 
half-pays  who  have  companies  do  more,  but  I  can't 
fit  it  in.  There  are  guns,  I  believe — but  you've  heard  all 
about  the  gun-running.  Wish  I  was  in  it.  But  my  fel- 
lows have  never  seen  a  rifle.  One  hears  talk — but  I  don't 
know.  The  fellows  love  it.  I  bought  'em  a  miniature 
rifle  range,  and  there  are  tea  parties  no  end,  and  flag 
waving  and  speeches.  We  don't  want  to  fight,  but  by 
jingo  if  we  do,  and  all  that.  Some  of  'em  are  spoiling 
for  a  fight.  They'll  go  to  pieces  unless  they  can  have  a  go 
at  someone.  The  reb  volunteers  promise  some  sport,  but 
they're  worse  off  for  arms  than  we  are.  It's  all  great  fun. 
There  are  big  political  issues  mixed  up  with  it  I'm  told, 
but  I  don't  pay  much  heed  to  political  tosh.  Dick  knows 
all  about  it,  though  he  takes  it  cool  enough.  And  Duncan, 
Vi's  intended,  is  up  to  his  neck  with  Carson  and  Craig  and 
Galloper  Smith  and  all  that  talking  crowd." 

Belfast  didn't  show  any  excitement  beyond  its  early 
morning  business  as  Jim  drove  through  the  half- 
awakened  streets,  with  Stephen  at  the  wheel,  on  his  way 
to  Castle  Edwardes.  It  was  a  relief  to  get  out  of  the 
half  tawdry,  half  squalid  provincial  city  at  a  pace  that 
defied  all  speed  regulations.  In  forty-five  minutes — two 
minutes  less  than  he  had  ever  done  it  before,  Stephen 
said  cheerfully — they  drew  up  at  a  long  two-storied  cut- 
stone  house  with  a  classic  portico.  The  castle,  a  low 
ivied  tower,  peered  round  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  No  one  down  yet,"  Stephen  said,  with  a  glance  at  the 
upper  windows.  "And  a  good  job,  too.  Duncan  is 
here,  and  I'm  sick  of  spoons.  You'll  have  more  than 


250  Conquest 

enough  of  it.  Tell  you  what.  I've  a  route  march  for 
eight.  Come  with  me  and  you'll  escape  the  cooing  till 
evening.  We'll  have  a  bath  and  brekker  and  be  cleared 
out  before  any  one's  down.  Most  of  the  men  are  at  work, 
of  course,  and  there'll  be  only  a  sprinkling,  but  you'll  see 
what  they're  like.  I ' ve  two  hundred  and  sixty  altogether 
in  my  double  company,  but  it's  the  devil  to  get  them  all 
together.  We'll  be  lucky  if  we  have  thirty." 

Jim  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  both  to  escape  the 
lovers  and  to  see  the  volunteers.  After  a  hurried  bath, 
change,  and  breakfast,  equipped  with  webbed  belt, 
haversack,  and  water-bottle,  he  went  with  Stephen, 
similarly  accoutred,  to  the  Edwardes's  farmyard,  where 
he  found  the  local  drill-hall  in  the  big  hay  barn.  A  group 
of  men  lounging  about  the  door  stood  to  attention  and 
saluted.  Some  wore  khaki  shirts,  others  football  jerseys, 
but  the  majority  were  in  ordinary  cotton  shirts  of  many 
colours.  Each  man,  however,  had  a  webbed  belt,  a 
haversack,  and  a  water-bottle,  which  seemed  to  be  the 
official  uniform.  As  they  were  put  through  some  elemen- 
tary drill  on  the  cobbled  pavement  Jim  counted  forty- 
two  men  of  all  ages  from  about  sixteen  to  sixty  or  more. 
Stephen  was  nervous,  blushed  a  little  when  addressed  as 
Captain,  and  left  the  command  to  a  sergeant  who  was 
evidently  an  old  soldier.  The  men  were  bronzed  and 
hefty  and  very  much  in  earnest,  but  in  bearing  and  move- 
ment would  have  cut  a  poor  figure  beside  the  rifle  team  at 
Winchester. 

"Pretty  good,  eh?"  Stephen  said  proudly  in  a  low 
tone. 

Jim  nodded.  It  was  pretty  good.  But  what  did  it  all 
mean?  He  wanted  to  talk  to  them,  to  ask  them  what  it 
was  all  about.  Perhaps  during  a  rest  he'd  have  a  chance. 
The  sergeant  gave  the  order  to  fall  in  for  the  march.  The 
little  patchwork  column  set  out,  the  sergeant  at  the  side, 


Conquest  251 

Jim  and  Stephen  in  the  rear.  As  they  passed  a  roadside 
farmhouse  a  dour-looking  bearded  man  eyed  them  sourly 
from  the  doorway. 

"Them's  a  dandy  lot  you've  with  you  the  day,  Mr. 
Stephen,"  he  said  in  a  sarcastic  drawl. 

"Aren't  they?  You  should  join  us,  Mackenzie," 
Stephen  said  pleasantly. 

"  I've  my  oats  to  attend  to,  praise  the  Lord.  It's  not 
much  time  I  have  for  play,"  Mackenzie  said  with  a  grin. 

"He's  one  of  my  persuasion  I  suppose?"  Jim  said 
when  out  of  hearing. 

"Oh,  no.  He's  a  Presbyterian.  He  hates  an  Orange- 
man only  a  shade  less  than  he  hates  a  papist.  We're  in 
the  majority,  of  course,  but  there  are  a  good  few  of  them 
about.  That's  a  workman  of  his  just  in  front  of  you, 
and  Mackenzie's  pretty  sore  with  us  for  taking  him  away 
from  the  harvest — humbugging,  he  calls  it.  Anyhow,  for 
one  reason  or  another  he'd  hang  Carson  on  the  nearest 
telegraph  pole." 

"You  haven't  all  the  Protestants  then?" 

"  Not  by  a  jolly  long  shot — a  lot  of  our  own  people  even 
are  lukewarm,  and  many  won't  touch  us  at  all.  Things 
are  better  since  the  Curragh  incident,  as  they  know  they 
haven't  to  face  the  Army.  But  what  we  have  are  Ai." 

In  the  fields  men  were  busy  harvesting.  A  slight  heat 
haze  softened  the  blue  of  the  hills.  Here  and  there  a 
farmstead  slept  in  the  sun.  Away  on  the  right  was  the 
sea,  the  white  sails  of  a  four-masted  ship  reflecting  the 
light.  The  thud,  thud  of  the  marching  men  rang  out  a 
challenge  to  the  deep  peace  that  hung  quiet  but  expect- 
ant over  land  and  sea. 

A  rest  was  called,  and  the  men  stretched  themselves 
flat  on  their  backs  on  a  heather  knoll.  An  elderly  man 
pulled  a  tuft  of  heather,  buried  his  face  in  it  and  drew  a 
deep  breath. 


252  Conquest 

"I'm  growing  old  like  for  the  march,"  he  said  grimly. 
"But  they  won't  let  us  alone." 

"Who?"  Jim  asked. 

"The  English — giving  way  to  the  papists  with  their 
Pope  and  that  Joe  Devlin.  I  knew  'em  well  within  in 
Belfast  in  the  Falls  road.  The  sly  look  of  them  priests. 
We  won't  have  'em  ruling  over  us.  There's  David  Simes 
there,  he's  put  all  his  savings  in  a  machine-gun.  I  know 
what  I  know.  It's  our  money  and  our  land  they  want. 
The  North  is  the  only  part  that  has  the  money.  They'd 
tax  us  out  of  house  and  home.  I  know  what  Home  Rule 
means — the  bloody  robbers." 

"Leinster  is  richer  than  Ulster,"  Jim  objected. 

"They're  all  beggars — beggars  that  live  on  Indian  meal 
stirabout,"  the  old  man  said  vehemently.  "And  there 
isn't  a  year  I  don't  kill  a  pig  of  my  own.  I  know  what 
they're  after.  And  I'm  used  to  my  good  oatmeal 
porridge,  too." 

By  twelve  o'clock  some  of  the  older  men  had  begun  per- 
ceptibly to  lag  and  the  younger  to  limp.  A  halt  was 
called  for  a  meal  on  a  hillside  overlooking  a  village.  The 
men  scattered  themselves  over  the  grass,  sat  or  lolled. 
Pipes  were  lit  and  haversacks  and  bottles  unslung.  A  few 
of  the  younger  men  started  a  competition  of  hop,  step, 
and  jump. 

"Eleven  miles,"  the  sergeant  said.  "It's  as  much  as 
they  can  do  in  reason,  and  some  of  'em  are  done  up." 

After  their  meal  the  men  stretched  themselves  out  and 
slept.  Stephen  pulled  a  textbook  on  drill  out  of  his 
haversack. 

"I  must  read  up  a  bit  to  put  'em  through  some  exer- 
cises when  they're  freshened  up,"  he  said  apologetically. 

Jim  lay  flat  on  his  back.  Soon  his  pipe  dropped  from 
his  mouth.  He  made  a  movement  to  recover  it,  but  his 
hand  stopped  half  way  and  he  fell  back  asleep.  When  he 


Conquest  253 

awoke  again  Stephen  was  still  reading  with  puckered 
brow. 

"These  things  are  the  very  devil,"  he  said  in  a  worried 
tone.  ' '  No  sooner  do  I  get  them  into  my  head  than  they 
run  out  again.  Say,  Davis,  get  a  few  of  the  men  to  cut  a 
few  score  of  osiers  from  the  hedge  over  there." 

The  sergeant  saluted.  ' '  It's  not  trespass,  sir  ? "  he  said 
doubtfully. 

"  It's  all  right.  It's  Freke's  land,"  Stephen  said  with  a 
smile.  "They're  mostly  Nationalists  down  there,"  he 
explained  to  Jim,  pointing  to  the  village,  "and  we  must 
be  careful." 

"An  Ulster  within  Ulster,"  Jim  laughed. 

"They've  volunteers  of  their  own,  too.  Dan  Sugrue 
got  'em  up.  He  was  at  Oxford  with  Dick." 

' '  I  remember  him.  B  ut  I  thought  he  was  a  Unionist — 
he  was  certainly  a  Protestant." 

"He's  a  Protestant  all  right.  But  he's  a  Sinn  Feiner 
now,  the  damned  turncoat,"  Stephen  said  pleasantly. 
"It's  a  bit  of  a  mix-up,  but  it's  topping  fun.  He  has 
only  about  fifty  men  to  my  two  hundred  and  sixty,  but  he 
was  in  the  Militia  and  turns  'em  out  well.  They're 
mostly  Roman  Catholics,  but  he  has  collared  five  or  six 
Presbyterians,  damn  his  .cheek." 

The  osiers  were  cut  and  trimmed,  and  distributed 
among  the  men,  who  were  now  sitting  up,  yawning, 
stretching  their  legs,  and  lighting  their  pipes.  Stephen 
read  on  for  another  ten  minutes,  put  the  book  back  in  his 
haversack  with  a  sigh,  and  gave  the  word  to  fall  in. 

The  men  were  divided  into  two  companies,  and  a 
mimic  attack  and  defence  of  a  small  knoll  followed,  the 
osiers  becoming  rifles  with  fixed  bayonets  at  the  word  of 
command. 

A  drum  sounded  from  the  direction  of  the  village. 
There  was  a  pause  in  the  battle,  and  every  eye  was  turned 


254  Conquest 

towards  the  approaching  drum.  A  thin  column  of  men 
in  green  sashes,  marching  two  abreast,  advanced  up  the 
road  leading  from  the  village. 

"  It's  Saturday  evening  and  they've  their  full  muster," 
the  sergeant  said  dolefully.  "They're  fresher  than  we 
are,  sir.  They  mustn't  see  us  marching.  Old  Palmer  is 
as  good  as  a  cripple,  and  a  few  of  the  youngsters  aren't 
much  better." 

"  Break  off  for  tea,"  Stephen  said  with  a  groan. 

The  men  squatted  again  on  the  grass  and  drank  cold 
tea,  but  their  attention  was  given  more  to  the  rival 
volunteers. 

"There's  no  fear  of  a  scrap?"  Jim  said. 

"It's  not  one  of  the  days,"  Stephen  said  cryptically. 

"That's  the  old  drum  they  bought  off  us  when  we  got 
our  new  one,"  an  old  man  said  contemptuously. 

"What  are  they  but  a  lot  of  monkeys  imitating  us  in 
everything  ?  They  never  dreamt  of  the  drill  till  we  put  it 
into  their  heads,"  another  said  boastfully. 

"They  march  straight  enough  for  papists,"  a  young 
man  said  admiringly. 

"They  haven't  twelve  miles  and  a  pitched  battle  to 
their  credit,"  one  of  the  first  speakers  said  with  pride,  and 
added  with  deep  contempt,  "The  whole  lot  of  'em  in  all 
Ireland  hasn't  the  courage  to  run  in  a  cargo  of  guns." 

"That's  the  truth  anyway.  Sure  we  could  drive  'em 
into  the  Lough  or  into  the  Boyne  Water  at  our  leisure," 
the  young  man  said  with  a  grin.  "Still  I  wouldn't  be 
denying  them  the  little  virtue  they  have — they  can  walk 
when  they're  fresh." 

"Shut  up,"  the  sergeant  said  authoritatively.  "Let 
ye  not  pretend  to  see  them." 

The  men  busied  themselves  with  their  tea,  casting 
furtive  looks  at  the  little  column  now  almost  abreast  of 
them,  but  about  fifty  yards  off.  The  drum  continued  to 


Conquest  255 

beat,  and  the  green-sashed  volunteers  marched  past, 
with  eyes  front,  taking  no  notice  of  the  group  on  the  hill. 

"They  know  you're  here,  I  suppose?"  Jim  said  with  a 
laugh. 

"What  else  did  they  come  processing  up  the  hill  for?" 
Stephen  said  ruefully.  "  If  my  men  were  fresh  I'd  take 
the  hill  at  the  double  and  show  'em  what's  what.  Let 
'em  get  ahead  a  bit,  Davis,  and  then  we'll  cut  across  the 
road  and  get  home  by  Ballyowen.  Nothing  undignified, 
but  we'll  give  the  beggars  a  sell — they're  sure  to  wait  at 
the  Furka  cross-roads  to  have  a  jeer  at  us  if  we're 
limping." 

It  was  ten  to  eight  when  the  footsore  route-marchers 
reached  Castle  Edwardes.  While  Stephen  provided  the 
men  with  beer  and  a  scratch  meal  in  the  barn,  Jim  had  a 
bath  and  got  to  the  drawing-room  at  the  last  stage  of  Mrs. 
Edwardes's  despair  over  a  delayed  dinner. 

"  It  was  too  bad  of  Stephen  to  take  you  off  like  that," 
she  said  as  she  shook  hands  warmly. 

"Jim  likes  seeing  things,"  Dick  Edwardes  said  drily. 
"He  has  seen  something  of  the  great  army,  eh,  Bob?" 
he  added  to  a  smiling  blond  giant  with  a  shrewd  mouth. 

"Bob  Duncan — but  you  know,"  Violet  Edwardes 
said  timidly,  a  faint  blush  mantling  her  finely  cut  face. 

Jim  vaguely  congratulated  Duncan,  who  glanced 
possessively  at  Violet  and  said  awkwardly,  "Thanks, 
thanks.  Dick  is  always  sneering  at  our  little  efforts  in 
Ulster,  Mr.  Daly.  Of  course,  Stephen's  lot  out  here  are 
only  a  scratch  pack.  But  you  can  see  the  real  thing  in 
Belfast." 

They  went  into  dinner  without  Stephen,  Mrs. 
Edwardes  murmuring  in  Jim's  ear: 

' '  That  poor  boy  is  killing  himself.  But  he's  so  devoted. 
And  it  is  a  great  cause." 

In  her  high  black  silk  dress,  entirely  disdaining  fashion. 


256  Conquest 

she  made  an  imposing  figure  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
Her  straight  back,  the  poise  of  her  head,  the  little  black 
lace  cap  relieved  with  white  on  her  half  grey,  brown 
hair  were  reminiscent  of  an  older  generation.  Her  face 
had  a  dignity  that  Violet's,  for  all  its  regular  beauty, 
lacked.  She  was  slightly  nervous  about  the  dinner,  of 
the  manners  of  Violet  and  Bob  Duncan,  which  she  rather 
tolerated  than  approved,  of  the  absence  of  Stephen.  Once 
when  Bob  snatched  a  salted  almond  from  Violet  she  gave 
a  timid,  appealing  look  at  Dick,  calm  and  lazily  cynical 
at  the  foot  of  the  table,  which  said  plainly,  "  Of  course  one 
has  to  expect  it  of  Mr.  Duncan,  who  is  only  a  Belfast 
tradesman,  but  Violet!" 

Stephen  burst  into  the  room  as  the  fish  was  being 
removed,  and  insisted  on  taking  up  the  meal  where  it 
stood. 

"Can't  look  at  soup  or  fish — I've  begun  on  ham  and 
beer  in  the  barn.  Dan  Sugrue  took  the  shine  out  of  me 
to-day,"  he  added  with  a  laugh,  taking  the  vacant  chair 
between  Jim  and  Dick. 

"The  disloyal  ass — he's  a  disgrace  to  his  family,"  Bob 
Duncan  said  with  a  frown. 

"Oh,  rats.  Dan  is  a  decent  chap,"  Stephen  said  gaily. 
"  I'd  do  the  same  to  hjim.  Paraded,  as  if  his  lot  were  the 
Ulster  army  and  we  only  interlopers." 

"It's  getting  a  little  beyond  me  to  make  out  who's 
loyal  and  who's  disloyal,"  Dick  said  grimly.  "  I  used  to 
think  I  was  a  loyalist,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  know  where  I 
stand  now.  For  the  life  of  me,  Bob,  I  can't  see  where 
you  all  differ  from  Dan  Sugrue.  You,  a  member 
of  the  Ulster  Council — a  major-general,  I  suppose — 
Ste  drilling  a  company,  and  my  mother  and  Violet  with 
their  Red  Cross  section.  It's  either  play-acting  or  it's 
rebellion." 

"Dick  thinks  that  clever,"  Violet  said  scornfully. 


Conquest  257 

"Of  course  we  must  stand  by  our  men,"  with  a  smile  at 
Bob. 

"One  in  the  eye  for  you,  Dick,  old  man.  She  means 
she's  Bob's  man  now,"  Stephen  said  cheerfully. 

Mrs.  Edwardes  stiffened  a  little;  but  as  she  never 
could  bring  herself  to  disapprove  wholly  of  anything 
Stephen  did  or  said,  she  smiled  faintly  and  made  an  effort 
to  support  Violet : 

"You're  forgetting  the  great  cause,  Dick  dear.  And 
we  couldn't  let  the  poor  wounded  go  unattended." 

"You  expect  Stephen  to  be  brought  in  to  you  on  a 
gory  stretcher,"  Dick  said  with  a  shrug. 

"Oh,  never  that.  You  shouldn't  speak  of  such 
dreadful  things,"  his  mother  said  with  a  horrified 
look. 

"Oh,  well,  you  might  be  saved  that — he'll  probably  be 
buried  in  jail — shot  against  a  wall  as  a  rebel,"  Dick  said 
cynically. 

"I'll  have  another  helping  of  the  vol-a-vent,"  Stephen 
said  to  the  butler. 

"I  think  it's  very  wrong  of  you  to  say  such  wicked 
things,  Dick — and  to  speak  of  your  brother  as  a  rebel — 
we,  who  have  always  been  loyalists,"  Mrs.  Edwardes  said 
half  sadly,  half  indignantly. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Mrs.  Edwardes.  I  promise  you  it 
will  never  come  to  that,"  Bob  Duncan  said  placidly. 
"  It's  all  a  matter  of  politics.  We'll  drive  the  Liberals 
out  of  office  and  die  peacefully  in  our  beds." 

"It's  all  a  game  of  bluff,  then?"  Dick  said  coldly. 
"  It's  a  dangerous  weapon  to  handle,  Bob." 

"I  wouldn't  call  it  all  bluff,"  Bob  said  thoughtfully. 
"  It's  a  risky  game  enough  I  know,  but  the  stakes  are  big 
and  we  must  take  our  risks.  I'm  loyal  to  the  King,  but 
I've  no  loyalty  to  a  Government  that's  playing  ducks  and 
drakes  with  property  and  capital." 


258  Conquest 

"That's  all  right  with  a  vote,  but  what  about  machine 
guns?  When  you  shoot,  you  shoot  the  King." 

"We  won't  have  to  shoot.  The  Government  will  get 
cowed  and  throw  up  the  sponge  long  before  that,"  Bob 
said  confidently. 

"I  wish  the  Tory  Party  luck  when  they've  got  into 
power  with  the  lesson  they've  taught  labour,"  Dick  said 
anxiously. 

"That's  their  lookout  in  England,"  Bob  said  cynically. 
"They're  helping  us  to  stave  off  Home  Rule,  and  we're 
helping  them  to  get  back  to  power.  Labour  is  quiet 
enough  in  Belfast,  thank  God.  That's  where  the 
religious  question  is  such  an  asset.  The  men  forget  their 
grievances  against  us  because  we're  fighting  the  Pope 
and  the  priests  side  by  side  with  them." 

"You're  even  bluffing  your  followers,"  Dick  said 
indignantly. 

"No,  it's  just  our  luck.  We're  as  much  afraid  of 
Home  Rule  as  they  are,  only  we're  more  afraid  of  injury 
to  our  business  than  of  the  priests.  In  a  way  the  threat 
of  Home  Rule,  so  long  as  we're  able  to  stave  it  off,  is  a 
sort  of  blessing  in  disguise — it  keeps  labour  quiet." 

"And  when  you're  not  able  to  stave  it  off  ? "  Jim  asked, 
laughing. 

"  Oh,  I  believe  we  can.    England  will  never  coerce  us." 

"But  if  she  does?" 

"I  suppose  we'd  have  to  put  up  with  it,"  Bob  said 
moodily.  "But  I  don't  believe  for  a  minute  that  she'll 
desert  the  most  loyal  people  in  the  Empire." 

"Loyalist,  Jim,  is  an  Ulster  synonym  for  armed 
rebel,"  Dick  said  drily.  "I'm  a  Unionist,  and  I  don't 
want  Home  Rule,  but  my  family  are  making  it  inevitable. 
The  Nationalists  can  be  trusted  to  imitate  our  Ulster 
loyalty.  Indeed,  they're  at  it  already." 

Violet  yawned.     "The  Larne  Flower  Show  would  be 


Conquest  259 

better  than  this,"  she  said  with  a  frown.     "What  about 
driving  me  over  to-morrow,  Bob?" 


IV 

"It's  thankful  I  ought  to  be  to  God  for  giving  me  the 
use  of  my  legs  at  all,  seeing  the  age  I  am,"  Pierce  Daly 
said  as  he  walked  slowly  and  painfully,  with  the  aid  of 
a  stick  and  Jim's  arm,  towards  the  cedar  tree. 

Arabella  got  up  from  the  bench,  smiled  a  welcome,  and 
arranged  the  cushions  in  the  old  man's  armchair. 

"  Durkan  was  telling  me,"  he  said,  when  he  had  taken 
his  seat,  "that  there  was  a  shipload  of  arms  landed  in  the 
night.  The  police  are  the  only  people  in  the  county 
that  haven't  heard  a  word  of  it  yet,"  he  added  with  a 
chuckle. 

"Diana's  work  I  suppose,"  Jim  said  ruefully. 

"The  police  are  sure  to  know.  It's  really  too  bad  of 
her,"  Arabella  said  fretfully.  "It  will  mean  jail  again." 

"Who'd  tell  them,  in  God's  name?"  Pierce  said 
indignantly.  "We  may  breed  many  queer  people  about 
here,  but  the  barony  never  bred  an  informer  yet.  It 
ought  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  English  to  the  respect  the 
people  have  for  their  laws.  But  sure,  who'd  expect 
sight  from  the  blind?" 

"I  thought  you  were  against  rebellion?"  Jim  said 
with  a  frown,  worrying  about  Diana. 

"I  was  settled  down  in  constitutional  agitation," 
Pierce  said,  staring  at  the  river.  "And  I'm  too  old  now 
to  change.  I  tried  both  the  gun  and  the  vote  in  my 
time,  and  England  beat  us  in  the  one  and  tricked  us  in  the 
other.  Since  Parnell  died  I  haven't  much  faith  in  either 
of  'em,  but  I  stuck  to  Redmond  for  the  sake  of  old  times. 
I'm  more  of  the  mind  now  of  that  Rooshian,  Tolstoi,  to  sit 
still  and  fold  our  arms  in  the  face  of  whatever  the  English 


26o  Conquest 

want  us  to  do,  and  not  to  take  act  or  part  in  it.  But  it's 
only  old  people'd  have  the  patience  to  wear  England  out 
in  that  way.  The  Sinn  Feiners  had  a  good  notion  enough 
of  how  to  set  about  it,  but  they've  been  led  astray  by 
Carson  and  his  Orangemen  with  the  English  Tories  at  the 
back  of  them.  I  can't  blame  our  young  men  for  being 
suspicious  that  England  is  preparing  to  sell  them  again, 
and  making  ready  for  it.  It's  not  the  first  time  that  she 
stirred  up  a  rising  in  order  to  set  her  heel  more  firmly  on 
the  neck  of  the  country." 

"It's  stupidity  more  than  malice  now,"  Jim  urged. 
"Millions  of  Englishmen  intend  well  by  Ireland." 

"There's  a  limit  to  the  lack  of  reason  even  in  the 
English,"  Pierce  said  drily.  "They've  put  the  comether 
on  you  over  there,  Jim.  I  had  hopes  you'd  see  through 
them  better.  If  a  man  goes  on  bashing  my  head  there's 
not  much  good  in  telling  me  that  he  intends  me  well. 
Anyway,  if  England  lets  in  arms  to  the  Orangemen  I  can't 
blame  any  Nationalist  for  having  a  gun  in  the  thatch. 
England  can't  say  that  we  began  it  this  time,  though  I 
wouldn't  put  even  a  bigger  lie  than  that  beyond  her 
when  she's  put  to  it.  Anyway  I'm  not  in  it  this  time. 
It's  the  first  time  in  my  life  there  was  a  move  round  here 
for  freedom  without  me  knowing  of  it.  It's  a  sign  that  I 
have  a  foot  in  the  grave.  Or  it's  maybe  a  punishment 
on  me  for  trying  to  make  believe  that  we're  ever  going  to 
get  the  pot  of  skilly  England  is  dangling  now  in  John 
Redmond's  eye.  They'll  break  his  heart  like  they  broke 
many  a  good  man's  heart  before  him.  But,  thank  God, 
they  can  never  break  mine,  for  I  never  had  any  trust  in 
them." 

A  maid  came  hurriedly  across  the  lawn  and  said  with 
an  air  of  mystery : 

"There's  a  man  outside  the  front  door  would  like  a 
word  with  you,  Mister  Jim!" 


Conquest  261 


"Who  is  he?" 

"He's  in  a  mighty  hurry,  sir,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 

Jim  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  followed  her. 

"It's  Mr.  Mike  Driscoll,  and  I  wouldn't  doubt  if  it  had 
to  do  with  the  gun-running,"  she  whispered  over  her 
shoulder. 

Jim  frowned,  but  quickened  his  pace.  At  the  front 
door,  faced  towards  the  open  gate,  was  his  own  little  two- 
seater  Singer,  its  engine  throbbing.  Durkan  stood 
sheepishly  by  the  front  of  the  car,  while  Mike  Driscoll, 
with  set  face,  held  the  door  of  the  car  open. 

"I  got  Durkan  to  bring  it  round  to  save  time.  I 
thought  I  could  presume  on  you  that  much,"  he  said, 
eyeing  Jim  keenly. 

"Your  cap,  sir,"  the  maid  said,  rushing  out  from  the 
hall. 

Jim  took  it  and  laughed. 

"Am  I  to  get  in?"  he  said  ironically. 

"There  isn't  a  minute  to  lose.  Take  the  Beekawn 
road  as  fast  as  ever  you  can  pelt,  and  I'll  tell  you  every- 
thing as  we  go  along." 

Jim  looked  at  the  serious  face,  kept  back  a  retort,  and 
jumped  into  the  car. 

"Why  this  drill-sergeant  manner,  Mike?"  he  asked  as 
he  let  the  car  go. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  was  too  stiff,"  Mike  said  shamefacedly. 
"But  I  thought  that  if  you  wouldn't  do  it  for  us  you'd 
do  it  for  Miss  Diana." 

"I  won't  be  mixed  up  in  any  of  your  nonsense,"  Jim 
said  angrily,  urging  the  car  to  its  last  inch  of  speed. 

"And  I  wouldn't  be  beholden  to  a  Government  man 
for  the  weight  of  a  pin  of  help  except  for  the  sake  of  Miss 
Diana  alone,"  Mike  said  with  dignity. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mike.  What  is  it?"  Jim  said  in  a  gentle 
tone. 


262  Conquest 

"Do  you  know  the  Carngarth  cove  between  Beekawn 
and  Ardglass?" 

"Yes.  Well?" 

"  And  there's  only  one  way  down  to  it." 

"I  know  that.     Do  hurry  up." 

"  I  want  to  give  you  the  whole  rights  of  it,"  Mike  said 
deliberately.  "And  you  can't  go  quicker  than  you're 
going.  Well,  anchored  in  the  mouth  of  the  cove  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  landing  is  Mr.  Travers'  yacht, 
and  tied  on  to  it  is  a  Greencastle  yawl  with  cases  of  rifles 
and  ammunition  in  it.  We  got  off  all  the  rest  last  night, 
but  we  were  short  of  one  cart.  Part  of  the  last  boatload 
had  to  be  left;  and  for  safety  they  kept  it  in  the  yawl 
instead  of  landing  it.  It  was  to  be  landed  at  -half  past 
nine  this  morning." 

"It's  five  past  nine  now,"  Jim  said  tritely,  glancing  at 
the  clock  in  the  car.  "  But  if  you  think  I  'm  going  to  help 
you  to  play  the  fool  you're  mightily  mistaken." 

Mike  grinned.  "Within  on  the  yacht  is  Miss  Diana. 
She'll  be  in  the  yawl  when  it  brings  in  the  stuff,"  he  said 
gravely.  "Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that  the 
peelers  aren't  as  big  idiots  as  you'd  have  every  right  to 
expect.  Though  if  Thady  Duggan  hadn't  failed  with  his 
cart  through  his  horse  going  lame,  it's  late  for  the  fair 
they'd  be  this  time  as  usual." 

"  For  God's  sake  get  on  with  it,"  Jim  said  impatiently. 

"There's  five  minutes  or  more  yet  before  you  get  to  the 
Beekawn  cross-roads  where  you  must  drop  me,  because 
the  peelers'd  never  let  you  drive  to  Carngarth  with  the 
likes  of  me  on  the  car,"  Mike  said  imperturbably. 

"  I'll  stop  the  car  if  you  don't  tell  me  at  once,"  Jim  said 
threateningly. 

"  My  God,  amn't  I  telling  you.  Isn't  it  impatient  you 
are.  Well,  the  police  got  wind  of  it  even  at  the  tail  of  the 
hunt.  This  very  minute  they're  in  ambush  down  in  the 


Conquest  263 

cove,  and  they're  guarding  the  way  down,  and  the  cliffs 
round  about.  They'd  be  on  the  yacht  long  ago,  but  there 
isn't  a  boat  in  Carngarth  but  the  yawl  with  the  stuff  in  it, 
and  that's  out  of  their  reach.  But  the  coastguards  were 
warned  and  they're  rowing  round  from  Beekawn  and'll 
be  at  the  yacht  shortly  if  they  aren't  there  now.  They 
started  near  an  hour  ago.  When  the  people  in  the  yacht 
see  them  coming  as  likely  as  not  they'll  make  a  drive  with 
the  stuff  for  the  shore,  and  in  they'll  walk  into  the  mouth 
of  Inspector  Foley  and  his  men." 

"Well?"  Jim  said  grimly. 

"We  could  have  rushed  the  police,  but  we  don't  want  a 
row — yet,"  Mike  said  meditatively.  "They  haven't  the 
brains  of  a  torn-tit  between  them,  the  poor  ownshucks; 
God  help  them,  and  any  one  they'd  let  down  to  the  cove'd 
easily  circumvent  them.  Let  me  down  at  the  cross-roads 
there." 

Jim  stopped  the  car  and  Mike  jumped  out.  "I'm 
sorry  for  disturbing  you  over  your  breakfast,  but  you  can 
make  it  yet  by  taking  the  Lisheen  road  this  side  of  the 
turn  down  to  Carngarth,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  the  sky. 
"If  Miss  Diana  has  to  go  to  jail  itself,  it's  fine  weather 
she'll  be  having  there,  thanks  be  to  God." 

"In  jail  you  ought  to  be,"  Jim  said  angrily. 

"That's  as  might  be,"  Mike  said  philosophically. 
"But  you'd  need  to  hurry  if  you  don't  want  to  be  late — 
for  your  breakfast,"  he  added  with  a  grin. 

Jim  frowned  and  started  the  car  suddenly.  The  whole 
world  was  swinging  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  here 
was  drawing-room  comedy.  He  was  angry  with  himself, 
with  Diana,  with  Carson,  with  the  Government.  With 
all  their  boasted  civilization  governments  had  hardly 
emerged  from  barbarism.  Deep  down  in  their  hearts 
they  clung  to  domination  and  conquest.  England  had 
emerged  farther  from  the  pit  than  any  of  the  great 


264  Conquest 

nations.  At  this  moment  she  was  courageously  uphold- 
ing right  and  freedom  in  the  councils  of  Europe.  Yet 
here  in  Ireland  she  was  herself  practising  what  she 
denounced,  what  she  was  prepared  to  shed  her  blood  to 
destroy.  .  .  . 

He  passed  the  Lisheen  turn  and  lowered  his  speed  as 
he  approached  the  old  by-road  to  Carngarth  cove.  As  he 
turned  the  corner  two  policemen,  about  ten  yards  ahead, 
moved  to  the  centre  of  the  road  and  held  up  their  hands. 

He  pulled  up  within  a  few  feet  of  them  and  said  to  one 
whom  he  had  known  for  years  at  Lisgeela: 

"Is  the  road  closed,  Cahill?" 

"It's  not  what  you'd  call  closed,  Mister  Jim,"  Cahill 
said,  scratching  his  head,  and  looking  doubtfully  at  his 
companion,  "but  we  aren't  letting  any  one  down  it.  It's 
a  cruel  bad  road  on  the  tires.  It's  split  up  on  you  entirely 
they'd  be." 

*'Sure  Mr.  Daly  is  high  up  himself  in  the  Government. 
What  loss'd  it  be  on  the  likes  of  him  going  down?"  the 
other  policeman  said  sheepishly. 

"Sure  there  wouldn't,"  Cahill  said  in  a  relieved  tone. 
"Only  let  you  be  careful,  Mr.  Jim,  when  you  get  beyond 
the  hazel  bush.  It's  more  like  a  track  down  to  hell,  it  is, 
than  anything  that'd  be  pretending  to  be  a  decent  road." 

"Right  oh,  and  thanks,  Cahill,"  Jim  shouted  as  he 
negotiated  a  bad  rut,  with  a  smile  at  the  immunity  of  high 
Government  officials  from  burst  tires. 

He  took  the  steep  decline  at  a  pace  that  endangered  the 
car  and  his  neck.  The  road  was  little  more  than  the  dry 
bed  of  a  mountain  stream.  Beyond  the  hazel  bush  it  was 
a  mere  track  between  boulders  matted  with  blackberry 
bushes  and  elder.  A  jutting  cliff  on  his  left  shut  out  the 
sea.  Once  he  asked  himself  what  he  was  going  down  for, 
what  he  could  do,  what  he  would  do  even  if  he  could  do 
anything,  but  a  sudden  jolt  made  him  give  all  his  atten- 


Conquest  265 

tion  to  the  car.  He  seemed  to  hang  in  the  air  for  breath- 
less minutes,  and  then,  -round  a  corner,  about  five 
hundred  yards  ahead,  the  precipitous  wall  of  limestone 
cliff  that  marked  the  far  side  of  the  cove  glittered  in  the 
sun.  The  near  cliff,  glowering  in  the  shade,  still  shut  out 
the  sea.  He  slowed  down,  and  could  just  make  out  that 
the  man  watching  him  from  a  projecting  rock  near  the 
cove  steps  was  a  policeman.  He  was  soon  joined  by 
another,  who  levelled  binoculars  on  the  car.  In  a  few 
seconds  he  lowered  the  glasses  and  handed  them  to  the 
first  policeman,  who  at  once  disappeared  behind  a  rock. 
The  other  took  out  a  case  and  had  lighted  a  cigarette  as 
Jim  approached. 

"  Hullo,  Daly.    Going  to  have  a  swim? " 

"Morning,  Foley.  Glorious  day  for  it.  Are  you?" 
Jim  said,  stopping  the  car  and  jumping  out. 

"  No  such  luck.  Have  a  lot  of  damned  men  with  me. 
Thought  I'd  knock  the  softness  out  of  'em  by  some 
patrol  work,  but  they've  no  guts  in  'em,  and  I'm  giving 
'em  a  rest." 

Small  blue  eyes  glinted  humorously  in  the  little  tight 
florid  face,  as  he  pointed  towards  a  group  of  about  twenty 
men  stretched  in  the  shade  of  a  mass  of  rock. 

"  Give  them  a  swim.  It  would  freshen  'em,"  Jim  said 
drily. 

' '  Can't.  There's  a  damned  yacht  out  there,  and  I  savr 
a  flutter  of  petticoats  on  it.  They  seem  to  be  making  up 
their  minds  to  come  ashore.  Looks  like  Travers'  yacht. 
Wonder  who  they  can  be?" 

Jim  walked  along  the  uneven  ledge  towards  the  rough 
steps  hewn  out  of  the  face  of  the  rock  to  low- water  level. 
From  the  top  of  the  steps  he  got  the  first  view  of  the  little 
bay  widening  out  between  lofty,  sheer  cliffs  from  the  mere 
point,  giving  barely  space  for  a  long  boat,  where  he  stood. 
The  sun  cut  diagonally  across  the  water.  A  glittering 


266  Conquest 

sheet  of  rose  and  silver  shimmered  and  smiled  with  play- 
ful malice  at  the  deep,  sullen  greens  and  blues  in  the 
shadow  of  the  cliff.  Jim  caught  his  breath  at  the  sight 
of  the  yacht.  He  fumbled  for  his  cigarette  case.  When 
he  looked  again  as  he  threw  away  the  match  there  was 
some  commotion  on  the  deck. 

"There's  a  rowing  boat  coming  round  Beekawn 
point,"  a  voice  called.  Foley  gave  a  muttered  "ha," 
lit  another  cigarette,  but  didn't  move  from  cover  of  the 
rock. 

For  a  few  seconds  Jim  watched  alternately  a  six-oared 
boat  moving  rapidly  towards  the  yacht  from  the  direction 
of  Beekawn  point,  and  the  action  on  the  yacht  itself.  A 
yawl  was  pulled  round  from  the  stern  to  the  side.  Six 
men  took  their  places  at  the  four  oars  of  the  yawl  and  two 
women  sat  in  the  stern.  As  the  yawl  was  pushed  off  he 
sat  down  at  the  head  of  the  steps  and  said  quietly: 

"  Those  people  are  coming  in  off  the  yacht.  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  bathe." 

"They're  coming  in  off  the  yacht,  are  they?"  Foley 
repeated  aloud,  but  without  moving  from  cover.  "I 
don't  see  how  you  can  very  well.  A  few  hundred  yards 
back  there's  another  cove — not  at  all  a  bad  place,"  he 
added  with  some  enthusiasm. 

"I  think  I'll  wait  and  see  who  they  are,"  Jim  said, 
rising  and  walking  farther  on  on  the  ledge. 

Foley  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  threw  away  his 
cigarette .  ' '  Wonderful  weather  for  the  harvest , "  he  said 
toying  with  a  revolver  case  at  his  belt. 

"Wonderful,"  Jim  said,  with  a  careless  glance  around. 
The  policemen  had  risen  to  their  feet,  but  still  kept  under 
cover  ot  the  rock.  Foley  lit  another  cigarette  and  kept 
the  match  suspended  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the  dull 
thud  of  the  oars  striking  the  wooden  thole  pins  of  the 
incoming  yawl.  He  yawned,  strolled  back  to  his  men 


Conquest  267 


and  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  a  sergeant.  The  coastguard 
boat  was  still  a  long  way  off  the  yacht,  while  the  yawl  was 
within  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  the  steps. 

Jim  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  shouted,  "Hallo, 
hallo." 

Foley  said  "Damn,"  with  a  frown.  The  sergeant 
moved  forward.  Foley's  face  brightened.  With  a  dry 
laugh  he  put  his  arm  in  front  of  the  sergeant  and  stopped 
him. 

"Recognized  friends?"  he  said  pleasantly  to  Jim. 

"Yes." 

"  They'll  be  jolly  glad  to  find  a  friend,"  Foley  said  with 
a  grin. 

The  boat  pulled  up  dead.  A  woman  stood  up  in  the 
stern  and  peered  at  Jim,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  sun 
with  her  hand. 

"Jim  Daly,"  he  shouted. 

"Hallo.  You?"  she  shouted  gleefully.  "What 
brought  you  here?" 

' '  To  welcome  you  as  you  deserve,  of  course.  Inspector 
Foley  has  twenty  of  his  men  behind  the  rock  here  to  give 
you  a  guard  of  honour." 

"Damnation,"  Foley  said  angrily,  springing  forward, 
followed  by  his  men. 

"What's  wrong?"  Jim  asked  quietly. 

"You  shouldn't  have  said  that,  you  know,"  Foley  said 
half  doubtfully. 

"  I  seem  to  have  put  my  foot  in  it  somehow,"  Jim  said, 
struggling  with  a  smile.  "  It's  a  good  jest  to  say  you've 
come  to  meet  her — it's  Miss  Scovell — a  sort  of  peace 
offering  for  putting  her  in  jail  once." 

"She  might  find  more  than  a  jest  in  it,"  Foley  said 
grimly.  "It's  my  own  fault  not  to  have  warned  you. 
They're  caught  in  a  trap,  anyhow,  so  there's  not  much 
harm  done.  Show  yourselves  well  on  the  ledge,  men, 


268  Conquest 

and  Laverty,  tell  the  lookout  to  shout  to  the  coastguards. 
Gun-running,"  he  added  laconically  to  Jim. 

"They're  not  Orangemen?"  Jim  said,  interested  in 
the  manoeuvres  of  the  yawl  which  was  being  backed 
steadily  out  and  sideways. 

"No,  Green.  They're  green  enough  to  back  out  of 
Scylla  into  Charybdis,"  Foley  said  with  a  grin. 

"They're  backing  on  to  the  Devil's  Harrow,"  a  police- 
man said  eagerly. 

Four  of  the  men  in  the  yawl  lifted  a  wooden  case  and 
were  preparing  to  sling  it  over  the  side,  the  remaining  two 
men  and  the  women  balancing  the  boat. 

"Stop  that  or  I'll  fire,"  Foley  shouted,  drawing  his 
revolver. 

"Pretty  long  range,"  Jim  said  drily.  "And  may  you 
fire  ?  What's  the  offence  ? ' ' 

The  case  was  let  drop  gently  into  the  water,  sinking  at 
once. 

"The  coastguards  can  drag  for  it — monkey  tricks  like 
that  won't  save  'em,"  Foley  said  with  a  shrug. 

"Sorra  good  a  drag  or  a  diver  either'll  do.  A  diver 
lost  his  life  once  in  it.  It's  as  deep  as  hell  except  for  the 
needle-points  of  rocks.  Within  the  memory  of  man  not  a 
thing  that  was  dropped  there  ever  came  to  light  again,"  a 
constable  said  with  evident  enjoyment. 

"Shout  all  of  you  to  the  coastguards  to  hurry.  It's 
neck  or  nothing  between  'em  now,"  Foley  said  with  a 
resigned  grin. 

There  was  a  wild  shouting  and  waving  of  arms.  The 
coastguards  stopped  rowing,  and  while  they  were  coming 
to  a  decision  gave  a  few  minutes'  respite  to  the  men  in 
the  yawl,  who  worked  feverishly.  Case  after  case  was 
dropped  into  the  sea.  The  coastguards,  having  made  up 
their  minds  what  to  do,  rowed  rapidly  towards  the  yawl. 
The  policemen  stood  silent,  their  heads  stretched  eagerly 


Conquest  269 

forward.  Once  when  a  case  slipped  back  into  the  boat  a 
policeman  murmured  "Bad  luck."  When  the  coast- 
guard boat  was  about  a  hundred  yards  off  a  case  was 
thrown  over  the  side  of  the  yawl  with  a  shout.  The  crew 
in  the  yawl  watched  the  eddies  for  a  few  seconds,  then  sat 
down  to  their  oars  and  pulled  quickly  towards  the  steps. 

"Drawn  blank,"  Foley  said  ruefully  with  a  half  ques- 
tioning look  at  Jim.  "  Call  out  to  the  coastguards  to  pull 
back  and  search  the  yacht,  Laverty.  Not  that  they'll 
find  anything,"  he  muttered. 

"How  kind  of  you  to  come  and  meet  us,  Mr.  Foley," 
Diana  said  mockingly  as  the  yawl  drew  alongside. 

Foley  saluted  smartly.  ' '  Hard  work  getting  rid  of  the 
ballast?"  he  said  with  a  grin. 

"Russian  egg  cases,"  Diana  corrected,  smilingly. 

"Eggs  gone  bad,  I  suppose?"  Foley  laughed. 

"  Oh  no,  a  little  unwholesome  to  land,"  she  said,  taking 
Jim's  hand  as  she  jumped  lightly  ashore.  "  Not  badly 
done  for  the  Foreign  Office,"  she  whispered  as  her  lips 
brushed  his  shoulder.. 


Before  mid-day,  by  popular  rumour,  Jim  had  become 
one  of  the  principals  in  the  gun-running  escapade.  In 
the  evening  he  was  cheered  loudly  as  he  drove  past  the 
market-house  of  Lisgeela,  an  old  fishwife  shouting: 

"  Thanks  be  to  God  the  Daly  blood  has  come  to  the  top 
in  him  at  last.  Wasn't  he  the  prime  leader  of  'em  all." 

As  he  drove  home  he  decided  that  he  must  resign  his 
job  at  the  Foreign  Office  at  once.  It  was  not  that  he  had 
done  anything  wrong.  The  ridiculous  rifles  were  lost, 
and  he  knew  that  his  intervention  had  prevented  serious 
trouble,  for  Mike  Driscoll  had  made  other  plans  that 
would  have  taken  effect  had  Diana  been  arrested.  But 


270  conquest 

certain  formal  obligations  had  to  be  observed,  and  he  had 
broken  one  of  them — in  the  letter  anyhow. 

At  dinner  his  grandfather  was  in  high  spirits.  Jim 
gave  an  ironic  account  of  the  gun-running,  but  old  Pierce 
would  have  none  of  it. 

"The  finger  of  God  is  in  the  whole  thing  as  plain  as  a 
pikestaff,"  he  said  over  and  over  again  with  glowing  eyes. 
"  Sure  I  always  knew  he'd  come  right,  Arabella.  Didn't 
I  often  tell  you?  Now  that  everything  is  as  God  willed 
it,  it's  a  daughter-in-law  he'll  be  bringing  in  on  the  floor 
to  you." 

Though  he  hadn't  drunk  wine  for  a  year  he  insisted  on 
opening  a  bottle  of  old  Burgundy.  His  memory  of  the 
intervening  years  seemed  to  have  been  blotted  out,  and 
he  dwelt  altogether  on  Jim's  childhood,  recalling  incident 
after  incident:  the  climbing  of  the  elm-tree,  Crabbit,  the 
death  of  his  brother. 

"  'Tis  he  was  the  queer  old  man,"  he  said  meditatively, 
"with  his  dreams  of  you  getting  back  that  big  barn  of  a 
Dalyhouse.  But  sure  did  I  ever  think  myself  that  one  of 
the  Scovells'd  be  like  a  daughter  to  me.  Her  eyes 
melted  any  feeling  of  revenge  I  had  against  them  out  of 
me  long  ago.  The  one  dream  of  my  life  now  is  that  ye'd 
come  together.  And  who  knows  what  blow  ye  mightn't 
be  able  to  strike  for  your  country  and  ye  of  one  mind. " 

"  Love  is  all  that  matters.  They  have  that,  and  it  will 
bring  everything  right,"  Arabella  said  gently. 

"  Love  was  a  good  bridge  for  you,  surely,  Arabella,"  the 
old  man  said  affectionately.  "But  it's  women's  talk  for 
all  that." 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips  and 
sipped  the  wine.  He  put  down  the  glass,  his  fingers 
clinging  to  the  stem  as  if  for  support,  his  eyes  glowing 

"God  knows  I  had  the  love  of  women  in  my  day,"  he 
said  harshly,  "and  I'm  blessed  out  of  the  common  now  in 


Conquest  271 

my  old  age  with  the  love  of  you  and  Diana.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  belittle  it  or  ye,  and  I'm  beholden  to  you, 
Arabella,  for  nearly  all  the  happiness  I  ever  had.  But 
above  ye  all — though  it  has  been  nothing  but  a  heartscald 
to  me  all  my  life,  I  put  my  country — above  Jim  there,  and 
he  was  always  like  my  heart's  blood  to  me,  above  my 
religion  if  it  goes  to  that,  may  God  forgive  me.  It's  a 
queer  twist  God  puts  in  a  man,"  he  added  apologetically. 
"  Me  to  be  talking  like  this  with  no  more  strength  in  my 
limbs  than  a  baby.  Let  me  lean  on  your  arm  up  to  bed, 
Jim  boy.  Tis  you're  the  comfort  to  me  this  night." 

"Will  there  be  a  war,  Jim,  do  you  think? "  he  asked  as 
Jim  bade  him  good-night. 

' '  Uncle  Silas  thinks  not.     I 'm  not  so  sure. ' ' 

"I  hope  to  the  great  God  there  will  be  and  that  Eng- 
land'll  come  out  of  it  broken,"  the  old  man  said  fervently. 
' '  A  good  beating  is  the  only  thing  that'll  ever  show  her  her 
sins.  God  bless  you,  boy." 

In  the  corridor  Jim  met  his  mother  on  the  way  to  her 
bedroom.  She  raised  her  candlestick  and  let  the  light 
shine  on  his  face.  "I've  a  headache  and  must  go  to  bed. 
No,  nothing  to  worry  about,"  she  added  quickly,  seeing 
his  look  of  concern.  "It's  been  a  trying  day  with  all 
those  ridiculous  rumours.  What  shall  you  do?" 

"Resign." 

"  Must  it  be  that? "  she  said  with  a  quiver  of  her  lips. 
"Have  you  read  the  papers?" 

"No." 

"There  Will  be  war,"  she  said  tonelessly 

"Oh,"  he  said  staring  through  her. 

"It  makes  a  difference?"  she  said  tremulously. 

He  started  and  woke  to  her  drawn  face  watching  his 
expectantly. 

"The  Foreign  Office  must  overlook  the  gun-running," 
he  said  with  a  hard  laugh. 


272  Conquest 

"You'll  go  back  there?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  that  or  something  of  the  kind,"  he  said  evasively. 

She  leant  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  make  you  any  happier,"  he  said 
railingly,  patting  her  hair. 

She  kissed  him  with  a  desperate  attempt  at  a  smile  and 
walked  towards  her  room  with  dragging  steps.  He 
watched  her  till  she  disappeared  behind  the  closing  door, 
and  from  a  jumble  of  vague  thoughts  said  "If"  aloud, 
and  turned  on  his  heel.  The  same  thoughts  took  more 
form  on  his  way  to  the  study.  The  war,  if  it  came,  would 
be  the  war  between  right  and  wrong.  It  was  the  final 
effort  of  Might  and  Aggression  and  Conquest  to  dominate 
the  world.  England  was  on  the  side  of  Right  and 
Justice.  She  was  to  fight  for  freedom,  not  only  for  her- 
self but  for  the  world. 

He  took  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time  and  hurried 
along  the  narrow  hall.  It  meant  the  clearing  away  of  the 
mist  at  Scarty  and  the  rolling  back  of  clouds  from  pole  to 
pole.  He  laughed  as  he  turned  up  the  lights  in  the  green 
shaded  lamps.  It  was  seeing  Diana  to-day  that  made 
him  think  of  the  effects  of  a  world  war  in  the  terms  of  a 
family.  But  why  not  ?  Where  better  could  one  see  what 
it  meant?  Diana,  his  grandfather,  his  mother,  himself 
should  be  at  one,  all  their  differences  gone.  Ireland's 
claim  to  determine  her  own  destiny  was  what  England 
was  about  to  fight  for  on  behalf  of  the  world.  England 
the  Conqueror,  was  sloughing  her  somewhat  spotted  skin 
to  lead  in  a  brighter  world  as  a  federator  of  free 
peoples.  .  .  . 

He  glanced  through  half  a  dozen  newspapers.  War 
seemed  to  be  certain.  There  was  no  hedging  on  the  main 
issue.  English  diplomacy  was  standing  unflinchingly  for 
Right.  He  sighed.  All  the  implications  of  the  war  were 
not  yet  fully  realized  by  the  press  and  people.  In  twenty- 


Conquest  273 

four  hours  a  new  book  of  the  world's  history  would  open. 
Yet  the  last  page  of  the  old  was  filled  with  recriminations 
— Suffragette  violence,  disputes  between  Nationalists 
and  Sinn  Feiners ;  attacks  by  both  sections  of  Nationalists 
on  the  Government  for  striking  at  the  Howth  gun- 
running  while  allowing  Orange  gun-running  to  go  on 
unmolested ;  Orange  defiance,  labour  threats.  It  was  the 
last  wail  of  the  old  order.  In  a  day  or  two  all  these  bick- 
erings and  misunderstandings  would  fade  away  as  the 
morning  mist  before  the  hot  August  sun.  .  .  . 

He  looked  through  a  number  of  unopened  letters. 
Bateson?  What  had  he  to  say?  "  If  we  go  in,  we  go  in 
fairly  clean  for  once  in  our  lives.  Let's  hope  we  come 
out  clean."  Bateson  hadn't  much  faith  in  millenniums 
— nor  had  he  himself  for  that  matter.  But  this  war  was 
different.  Even  Bateson  admitted  as  much.  Phipp's 
letter  wasn't  promising:  "Let's  hope  that  Ireland  will 
keep  quiet.  We  can't  afford  trouble  there  while  we're 
smashing  Germany."  But  a  larger  and  nobler  spirit 
must  come.  It  meant  understanding  and  peace  between 
Ireland  and  England.  It  meant  Diana — it  meant  every- 
thing. .  .  . 

He  sat  up  late  thinking  out  his  position.  His  mind 
went  back  to  Winchester,  to  the  excitement  there  during 
the  South  African  war.  Volunteers  went  out  then,  and 
this  was  going  to  be  a  bigger  thing.  He  was  sick  of  the 
Foreign  Office  where  the  absurd  system  gave  him  no 
work.  To  stick  there,  doing  nothing,  during  a  war  was 
unthinkable.  His  experience  in  the  rifle  team  would  be 
a  help.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  do.  ... 

Half  awake  during  the  night  he  saw  himself  as  a  symbol 
of  the  new  bond  of  friendship  that  was  to  unite  England 
and  Ireland.  .  .  . 

He  chafed  under  the  conflicting  telegrams  next  day, 
and  wired  to  Sir  Silas  to  ask  whether  he  was  wanted  at  the 


274  Conquest 

office.  A  curt,  "  No.  We  shall  send  for  you  if  we  want 
you,"  made  him  angry  with  the  stupidity  of  the  Foreign 
Office,  which  was  evidently  determined  to  muddle  along 
with  the  same  owlish  serenity  in  war  as  in  peace.  It 
relieved  him,  however,  of  any  qualms  of  leaving  a  diplo- 
macy which  he  was  not  allowed  to  practise,  for  the  army 
where  he  could  at  least  use  a  rifle. 

With  the  news  of  the  declaration  of  war  his  restlessness 
increased.  His  grandfather  was  slightly  ill,  and  Dr. 
Greany,  as  usual,  gave  pompous  instructions : 

"  My  patient  mustn't  be  disturbed  under  any  circum- 
stances. No  one  is  to  have  access  to  his  room  but  Nurse 
Doran,  whom  I  shall  send  out  forthwith.  No  mention  of 
the  war — of  anything  likely  to  interfere  with  equanimity 
of  temper." 

Jim  wandered  from  room  to  room,  took  a  long  walk  up 
the  glen,  avoided  his  mother,  who  seemed  also  to  avoid 
him,  slept  badly,  and  in  the  morning  packed  in  readiness 
for  an  immediate  journey. 

The  arrival  of  the  newspapers  giving  the  speeches  of  the 
party  leaders  in  Parliament  made  him  decide  to  leave  as 
soon  as  possible — that  day,  if  Greany  would  allow  him  to 
see  his  grandfather.  Redmond  had  risen  to  the  occasion, 
and  England  could  not  be  deaf  to  his  appeal.  After 
eight  hundred  years  of  strife  had  come  this  miraculous 
healing.  His  own  duty  was  clear.  As  a  man,  since  all 
other  means  had  failed,  he  had  to  fight  for  the  freedom  of 
the  world.  As  an  Irishman  he  could  do  no  less.  .  .  . 

He  went  out  on  the  lawn  where  his  mother  was  knitting 
beneath  the  cedar  tree.  She  put  down  her  work  and 
smiled  at  him  as  he  came  near.  He  pulled  a  wicker  chair 
close  to  her  and  sat  down.  After  a  few  minutes'  silence 
she  said : 

"You're  going?" 

He  nodded. 


Conquest  275 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  expecting  him  to  say  something. 

"I'm  going  into  the  Army,"  he  said. 

Her  hand  moved  towards  his  fingers  clasped  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair,  and  touched  them  one  after  another  as 
she  used  to  do  when  she  played  "  Piggy- Wiggy  went  to 
the  market"  with  him  as  a  child. 

' '  I  was  afraid  of  that, ' '  she  said  listlessly.  ' '  I  expected 
it — hoped  for  it  in  a  way.  But  one  is  always  afraid.  If 
I  hadn't  sent  you  to  England  it  mightn't  have 
happened." 

"You  should  read  Redmond's  speech,"  he  said  with  an 
assumption  of  gaiety,  flourishing  the  newspaper  with  his 
free  hand.  "  Irishmen  and  Englishmen  are  one  at  last  in 
a  common  cause.  Had  I  remained  at  home  I'd  be  doing 
the  same  thing." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  with  a  faint  smile.  "But  I 
tried  to  act  for  the  best.  I'm  glad  about  Redmond.  I 
always  hoped  for  a  bridge,  for  some  common  understand- 
ing. What  I  was  able  to  do,  others,  Irish  and  the  English 
could  do.  Thank  God,  it  has  come.  If  only  it  weren't  a 
war.  Oh,  Jim,  Jim." 

She  leant  against  him  and  wept  silently. 

"Don't,  mother,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

"When  it  comes  to  this  nothing  seems  to  matter  but 
you — not  oppression,  nor  liberty,  England,  Ireland,  any- 
thing," she  said  brokenly. 

"There's nothing  to  worry  about,"  he  said  desperately. 
And  then,  surprised,  but  glad  of  the  interruption: 

"Good  Lord — my  grandfather." 

Pierce,  supported  by  the  nurse,  came  through  the 
doorway  giving  on  the  lawn.  Arabella  dried  her  eyes 
and  rushed  forward.  "Oh,  father — Dr.  Greany,"  she 
said  reproachfully. 

"That  fellow,"  Pierce  said  contemptuously.  "Who 
minds  what  he  says.  I'm  as  strong  as  a  horse,"  he  added 


276  Conquest 

as  he  moved  feebly  towards  his  chair,  his  weight  divided 
between  the  nurse's  arm  and  his  heavy  ash  stick. 

"She's  a  decent  poor  girl  enough,"  he  said  with  a  dis- 
tasteful look  at  the  departing  nurse  as  he  settled  himself 
more  comfortably  in  his  chair,  "if  she  wouldn't  go  on  pre- 
tending I  was  a  sick  man — with  her  'Dr.  Greany  said  this,' 
and  'Dr.  Greany  said  that.'  Who'd  put  any  trust  in 
what  the  likes  of  him  of  a  political  trimmer'd  say? 
Twenty  times  he's  put  me  on  my  death  bed,  and  I  always 
got  off  it  by  doing  the  opposite  of  what  he  said." 

He  put  on  his  spectacles  and  took  up  a  newspaper  from 
the  table  beside  him. 

"She's  going  into  it  then,"  he  said  with  a  frown, 
"Listen  to  this  will  you?  'Protector  of  small  nationali- 
ties.' The  damned  hypocrites.  Did  you  ever  hear  the 
like?" 

"Read  Redmond's  speech,"  Jim  said. 

"Redmond  or  any  one  else  couldn't  change  a  devil  into 
an  angel  by  the  dint  of  saying  it,"  Pierce  said,  resting  the 
paper  on  his  knees.  ' '  Let  her  practise  at  home  first  what 
she's  so  fond  of  preaching  abroad  for  her  own  profit .  Did 
she  give  Home  Rule  to  Ireland  last  night?  Answer  me 
that." 

"  Principles  were  laid  down  that  inevitably  lead  to  it," 
Jim  said  confidently. 

"  Pooh.  What  is  a  principle  to  England  ?  She's  been 
mouthing  liberty  all  her  life  and  practising  tyranny. 
She  swallows  her  principles  every  morning  with  her  eggs 
and  bacon." 

He  took  up  the  paper  again  and  began  to  read.  An 
angry  frown  gave  place  to  a  look  of  bewilderment.  He 
took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them  with  his  handkerchief, 
fingered  the  newspaper  as  if  he  doubted  its  reality.  As 
he  read  on,  his  pallid  face  became  slowly  congested. 

"Am  I  here  in  Scarty  or  am  I  in  the  moon?"  he  said 


Conquest  277 

feebly  letting  the  paper  drop.  "They've  bamboozled 
that  poor  man  Redmond." 

"It's  the  speech  of  a  statesman,"  Jim  said  eagerly. 
"He  sees  that  this  is  a  fight  for  world  liberty.  The  British 
Empire  has  taken  its  stand  on  the  side  of  world  justice. 
He  knows  that  England  is  now  pledged  to  do  justice  to 
Ireland." 

"Talk,  talk,"  Pierce  said  bitterly.  "England  never 
made  a  pledge  that  she  didn't  find  a  way  out  of  it.  If 
she's  fighting  for  liberty,  let  her  prove  it  here.  With 
all  her  talk,  Jim,  she's  fighting  to  save  her  own  skin  and 
for  her  own  power." 

"She's  fighting  for  an  ideal,"  Jim  said  stubbornly. 

"Do  you  hear  him,  Arabella?  As  if  England  had  an 
ideal  beyond  her  own  pocket,"  Pierce  said  angrily. 

"You  know,  father,  that  I've  never  believed  that," 
Arabella  said  with  a  smile.  "  She  was  wrong  and  blind  in 
Ireland,  but  she  always  had  a  finer  side,  and  she  has  found 
her  true  self  now.  It's  a  time  for  trust  and  not  for 
remembering  the  past.  I'm  glad  Jim  sees  it — even 
though  it  means  taking  him  away  from  me  again,"  she 
added  tremulously. 

' '  Stuff  and  nonsense, ' '  the  old  man  began  angrily.  He 
stopped  short  and  stared  at  her  suspiciously.  "What's 
that?  Taking  him  away  from  you?  What  do  you 
mean,  woman?" 

"I'm  foolish  enough  to  want  to  fight  for  an  abstract 
idea,"  Jim  said  with  an  attempt  at  lightness. 

"What  are  ye  all  talking  about?  What's  the  boy 
saying,  Arabella? "  Pierce  said  feebly,  moistening  his  lips. 

"He's  going  into  the  Army,"  she  said  with  an  uneasy 
look  at  the  old  man's  face  which  seemed  to  have  shrunk  in 
a  deathlike  pallor. 

"The  English  Army?"  he  muttered  almost  inaudibly. 

She  nodded,  but  he  was  no  longer  looking  at  her.    He 


278  Conquest 

lay  huddled  up  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  closed,  his  fingers 
moving  aimlessly  over  his  knees. 

Arabella  rushed  to  him  and  put  an  arm  round  his 
shoulders.  "Father,  you're  not  well.  You  shouldn't 
have  got  up.  We'll  help  you  back  to  bed,"  she  said  with 
a  distressed  look  at  Jim. 

"Greany  is  right.  I'm  not  fit  for  anything  but  the 
bed.  Things  are  getting  beyond  me,"  he  murmured  with 
a  feeble  smile.  "What's  that  they're  saying  about  Jim 
being  a  redcoat  ? " 

They  helped  him  across  the  lawn.  "  What  am  I  doing 
in  my  Sunday  coat  and  there  being  a  lot  of  work  to  do  ? " 
he  said,  looking  vaguely  at  the  herbaceous  border.  ' '  The 
English  never  kept  their  word,  I  tell  you,  Arabella.  Run 
and  call  the  boy  or  it's  late  he'll  be  for  school.  But 
maybe  you'd  better  leave  him  to  have  his  sleep  out.  Did 
I  tell  you  how  he  climbed  the  elm  tree?  There's  a  boy 
for  you,  and  he  only  nine." 

VI 

"You're  heartily  welcome,  Mr.  Jim,"  Mrs.  Mike 
Driscoll  said  with  relief,  jumping  up  from  the  table  in  the 
kitchen  where  the  Driscoll  family  had  had  a  hot  argument 
over  tea.  "  How's  Mr.  Pierce? " 

"  Better,"  Jim  said,  shaking  hands  with  a  gloomy  Con 
and  a  gloomier  Mike  and  Mrs.  Con  with  the  fire  of  battle 
still  in  her  eyes.  "  He's  able  to  walk  about  with  help,  but 
I'm  afraid  his  memory  is  gone.  I  came  to  say  goodbye, 
I'm  off  to-morrow." 

"No  wonder  the  poor  man  would  be  moidered  in  his 
mind  with  this  war  that's  setting  the  whole  world  mad," 
Mrs.  Con  said  with  a  truculent  look  at  Con.  "But  if 
you're  off  itself  it's  more  sense  you'd  have  than  to  enlist 
for  a  soldier." 


Conquest  279 

"That  or  a  commission — it's  all  one  to  me,"  Jim 
laughed. 

' '  What  did  I  tell  you  ? ' '  Con  said  triumphantly  to  Mike. 

"What's  that  one  way  or  another,"  Mike  said  vehe- 
mently. "  Isn't  he  a  Government  man  already  ? " 

"Be easy  with  your  father  now,  Mike,"  Mrs.  Mike  said 
anxiously,  as  she  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  Jim. 

"Your  father-in-law  is  well  able  to  defend  himself. 
And  if  he's  only  a  poor,  weak,  let-everyone-crow-over- 
him  sort  of  a  man  itself,  I'm  well  able  to  stand  up  for 
him,"  Mrs.  Con  said  defiantly. 

"Sure  the  whole  world  knows  that,"  Mrs.  Mike  said 
with  a  slight  edge  to  her  conciliatory  tone.  "Won't  you 
be  giving  Mr.  Jim  one  of  your  hot  cakes,  mother?  Sure 
he  knows  well  the  lightness  of  them." 

"Any  one'd  think  it's  a  row  we  were  having,"  Con  said 
with  a  shrug  and  an  appealing  look  at  his  wife. 

"  Is  it  me  to  raise  my  voice  ?  Glory  be  to  God  it's  the 
wronged  woman  I  am,"  Mrs.  Con  said  with  a  look  at  the 
flitches  of  bacon  hanging  from  the  smoky  ceiling  as  if 
calling  on  them  to  bear  testimony.  ' '  Did  I  say  one  word 
above  my  breath  but  to  try  and  put  some  sense  into  the 
head  of  a  man  that's  on  the  brink  of  sixty." 

"  I'm  not,  nor  near  it,"  Con  said  with  resignation. 

"He'd  contradict  his  own  wife  for  the  sake  of  a  couple 
of  years,"  Mrs.  Con  said  with  a  despairing  wave  of  her 
hands.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  like  of  that  man, 
Jim  ?  Talking  of  joining  the  Army  and  he  no  more  fit  to 
carry  a  gun  than  Mike's  baby  in  the  cradle  there.  He 
never  had  any  sense,  and  it's  losing  his  reason  he's  alto- 
gether now.  But  sure  the  poor  man  wouldn't  be  put  to  it 
if  his  son  there  had  the  spunk  of  a  mouse  in  him,"  she 
added  with  a  sudden  change  of  attack. 

"You  well  know  it's  his  principles  and  not  any  fear 
that's  keeping  Mike  back,"  Mrs.  Mike  said  sharply. 


280  Conquest 

"The  obstinacy  of  a  jackass — that's  his  principles," 
Mrs.  Con  said  derisively.  "I  never  knew  any  good  to 
come  of  'em.  Con  himself  falls  back  on  'em  as  a  sort  of 
lean-to  when  the  argument  fails  him.  They're  less  stiff- 
necked  maybe  than  Mike's,  for  they  make  him  do  one 
thing  to-day  and  the  opposite  to-morrow.  One  day  they 
put  him  all  agin  the  English  and  drive  him  to  jail,  and 
the  next  they  make  him  all  for  England.  To  hear  him 
talk  about  the  war  you'd  think  he  was  a  Sassenach  born 
and  bred.  God  help  me,  ever  since  I  married  into  it, 
and  long  before,  this  house  hasn't  known  rest  or  peace 
from  principles  with  three  generations  of  politicians  in  it, 
and  maybe  another  growing  up  there  in  the  cradle.  It's 
a  poor  time  of  it  we  have,  Molly  Jordan,  between  us. 
What  call  at  all,  I  ask  you,  is  there  on  either  of  'em  to  go  ? " 

Her  daughter-in-law  shrugged  her  shoulders  at  this 
change  of  front  and  said  wearily,  "Isn't  that  what  I've 
been  holding  all  along?" 

"Whist,  women,"  Con  said  impatiently,  "Redmond 
has  committed  the  country  to  the  side  of  England,  and 
I'm  going  to  stand  by  him  no  matter  what  Mike  may  say 
or  do.  Honour  has  woke  up  in  England  at  last,  and  she's 
going  to  fight  for  the  weak  and  the  oppressed.  She's 
honour-bound  to  do  justice  to  us  at  the  same  time,  and 
I'm  going  to  trust  her.  It's  the  one  principle  I  stuck  to 
all  my  life,  and  my  father  before  me — to  do  my  best  for 
the  freedom  of  Ireland,  and  the  way  to  do  it  now  is  to 
back  England  in  winning  the  freedom  of  the  world.  I'm 
over  old,  maybe,  to  carry  a  gun,  but  there's  twenty  men 
pledged  to  go  already  from  this  parish,  and  one  man  must 
go  from  this  house." 

"  It  won't  be  me  till  I  see  some  sign  that  England  is  in 
earnest,"  Mike  said  stubbornly. 

4 '  Then  it'll  be  me, ' '  Con  said,  setting  his  lips  firmly. 

"Tisn't  that  I  don't  believe  that  England  mayn't  be 


Conquest  281 

right  in  the  main  about  this  war,"  Mike  said  uneasily,  his 
face  pale  and  strained.  "God  knows  I'd  like  to  fight 
with  her  to-morrow  in  the  cause  she  says  she's  fighting  for. 
Only  let  her  give  one  sign  that  she's  not  going  to  trick  us 
again  and  I'll  take  the  shilling  the  next  minute.  I  don't 
care  what  it  is — even  the  rotten  Home  Rule  Bill  she  has 
been  promising  us  these  years  past.  A  week  ago  I 
wouldn't  look  at  it,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  her 
and  she  in  trouble.  If  she  means  anything  at  all  she'll 
give  us  that  at  least.  Can't  you  wait,  father,  till  she 
shows  her  hand?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  bargain  with  her,"  Con  said  dog- 
gedly. "She's  done  a  noble  thing  in  coming  into  this 
war,  and  I'm  going  to  trust  her  word." 

"She  hasn't  given  her  word  to  us,"  Mike  said  bitterly. 

"  She  has  given  her  word  to  the  world  and  she  can't  go 
back  on  it,"  Con  said  firmly. 

"She  went  back  on  it  often.  And  besides,  it's  her 
deeds  we  want,"  Mike  said,  pushing  away  his  cup  and 
standing  up. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  kitchen,  his  hands  in  his 
trousers  pockets,  his  head  bent  between  his  broad 
shoulders.  His  mother  and  wife  wept.  Con  munched 
bread  quietly.  Jim  counted  the  tea  leaves  floating  in  the 
bottom  of  his  cup  and  thought  of  Diana.  Would  she  be 
as  intransigent  as  Mike  ?  He  glanced  at  the  grandfather 
clock  beside  the  dresser.  Twenty  minutes  to  six,  and  his 
appointment  with  her  at  Lentaigne's  was  for  six.  The 
car  would  do  it  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  he  must  try 
to  get  away.  Mike  stood  and  faced  his  father  across 
the  table. 

"  I  can't  do  it.  I'd  give  my  life  to  be  able  to  trust  her, 
but  I  can't,"  he  said,  wrenching  out  the  words  as  if  in  pain. 

"Don't  let  England  divide  ye  at  long  last,"  Mrs.  Con 
sobbed. 


282  Conquest 

"It's  a  struggle  that's  going  on  in  many  a  house  in 
Ireland  this  night,"  Con  said  sadly.  "  If  you  can't,  Mike, 
you  can't.  God  knows  England  is  herself  to  blame,  for 
it's  little  reason  she  ever  gave  us  in  the  past  to  trust  her. 
But  I  can't  believe  she's  such  a  double-faced  liar  now. 
Anyhow,  if  she  goes  back  on  me  you'll  be  to  the  good  to 
call  her  to  account  for  it,"  he  added  grimly.  "  Here  we 
are  airing  ourselves  and  our  little  differences  in  front  of 
Jim,"  he  went  on  with  a  laugh,  "and  none  of  ye  asking 
him  would  he  have  another  cup  of  tea." 

"  Is  it  going  from  me  you  are,  Con  ? "  his  wife  said  chok- 
ingly. "  Don't  let  your  father  put  shame  on  you,  Mike. 
Is  it  to  let  him  risk  his  life  you  would,  and  you  to  stay  at 
home?  What  did  I  rear  you  for?" 

Mike  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  out  through  the 
open  kitchen  door. 

"What  can  any  man  do  but  act  on  the  light  God  gives 
him,"  Con  said  angrily.  "For  God's  sake,  Sally,  let  the 
boy  be.  It's  a  sight  harder  on  him  to  stay  than  it  is  for 
me  to  go." 

The  baby  began  to  cry.  Con  and  the  two  women 
made  a  simultaneous  rush  for  the  cradle.  Mrs.  Con  held 
up  the  child  with  a  triumphant,  "Isn't  he  the  dead  spit 
of  Mike?" 

It  was  five  minutes  to  six  before  Jim  was  allowed 
to  break  off  his  admiration  of  the  baby,  and  a  quarter 
past  when  he  pulled  up  at  Lentaigne's  door. 

The  white,  dusty  road  had  seemed  to  stretch  out  inter- 
minably, yet,  while  he  was  still  shirking  the  thought  of 
her,  here  he  was.  Perhaps  his  long  quest,  too,  was  at  an 
end. 

He  found  Diana  in  the  library. 

"They're  all  at  Beekawn — but  you're  to  stay  to 
dinner,"  she  said,  shaking  hands,  her  face  half  turned 
away  from  him. 


Conquest  283 

"You've  been  crying,"  he  said,  still  holding  her  hand. 

She  shook  him  off. 

"Your  mother  wrote  to  me.  Jim,  how  could  you? 
Your  grandfather — who  was  so  devoted  to  you?"  she 
said  angrily. 

"Any  stick  is  good  enough  to  beat  me  with,"  he  said 
bitterly.  "Good  Lord,  do  you  hold  me  responsible  for 
that?" 

"I  do,"  she  said  defiantly. 

"Then  you're  either  grossly  unfair  or  a  little  fool,"  he 
said  calmly,  his  lips  hardening. 

She  flushed  slightly,  gave  him  a  quick  look  and  moved 
towards  the  bow  window. 

"This  is  a  new  r61e,"  she  said  quietly,  her  upper  lip 
trembling.  "Better  sit  down,"  she  added,  sinking  into  a 
corner  of  the  deep  settee,  "and  smoke.  It  may  help  you 
to  keep  your  temper." 

He  opened  a  box  of  cigarettes,  took  one,  and  lighted  it, 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  wide  tiled  fireplace,  blew  smoke 
rings,  and  looked  at  the  book-lined  walls  with  some 
interest.  She  watched  him  from  under  half-closed  lids. 
"The  man  who  painted  that,"  he  said,  nodding  towards 
a  small  pastel  hanging  from  the  knob  of  one  of  the  book- 
cases, "died  painting  signboards  in  the  East  End." 

"Drink?"  she  said  coldly. 

"And  some  fool  of  a  woman.  I  wonder  I  don't  take  to 
it,"  he  said  with  a  shrug. 

"I  prefer  drink  to  fighting  against  one's  country,"  she 
said  scornfully,  and  added  quickly  with  a  sudden  change 
to  a  tone  of  appeal.  "  For  God's  sake  don't  pose,  Jim." 

He  threw  the  cigarette  into  the  grate  and  sat  on  the  end 
of  the  settee. 

"  I'm  off  to-morrow  for  God  knows  how  long  or  where. 
Is  it  to  end  like  this  ? "  he  said  moodily,  tapping  the  leg  of 
the  seat  with  his  heel. 


284  Conquest 

"  I  tried,  Jim,  but  I  can't,"  she  said  miserably.  "  The 
other  day  at  Carngarth  you  could  have  taken  me  into 
your  arms  and  ended  it  all.  But  you  wouldn't.  I  was 
reading  one  of  Simon's  books  before  you  came  in — the 
'Antigone.'  It  made  me  cry.  It's  like  that  with  us — 
some  fate  that  we  cannot  escape." 

"  This  is  being  morbid.  We  carry  our  fate  in  our  hands 
these  days — or  in  our  hearts,"  he  said  laughing,  fingering 
a  strand  of  her  hair  and  letting  the  light  play  upon  it. 

"An  ideal  drives  you  one  road  and  me  the  opposite. 
Love  is  no  help — it  only  adds  to  the  bitterness,"  she  said 
brokenly. 

He  drew  her  head  towards  him  and  kissed  her  lips. 

' '  Our  roads  are  the  same  now, ' '  he  said  j  oyf ully .  ' '  Our 
ideals  were  always  the  same.  Our  differences  were 
about  the  means  of  achieving  them."  He  tried  to  kiss 
her  again,  but  she  pushed  him  away  gently. 

"Don't,  Jim.  Don't  make  me  feel  again  what  has 
been  a  torment  to  me  for  the  last  few  days.  I've  wanted 
you  so  much  that  I've  grown  numb  from  exhaustion. 
My  feelings  are  almost  dead  now.  Leave  them  dead. 
What's  the  use  of  making  me  miserable  again  when  we're 
farther  apart  than  ever." 

"But  we're  not,"  he  said  with  a  confident  smile. 
"There's  only  one  thing  to  do  now — to  strike  against  the 
wrong  with  which  Germany  threatens  the  world.  The 
eyes  of  England  are  open  at  last  to  the  evils  of  conquest. 
You've  read  the  speeches  in  the  House?  Ireland  is  as 
good  as  free  this  moment." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  "I've  tried  to  believe  all 
that,  Jim.  I  wanted  to  believe  it.  I  put  all  my  love  for 
you  in  the  scale  to  try  and  tip  it  down.  But  it  was  no  use. 
The  politicians  say  that  this  is  a  holy  war  against  Ger- 
man aggression.  In  a  way  I  believe  it  is.  But  what  does 
England  ask  us  to  do  ?  To  take  part  with  her  in  a  war  for 


Conquest  285 

the  freedom  of  the  world  while  we  remain  slaves.  And 
slaves  to  whom?  To  England  herself .  Good  God,  was 
there  ever  such  a  travesty?" 

"As  your  talk?"  he  said  laughing. 

''As  English  policy,"  she  said  warmly.  "Is  the 
German  tyranny  she  asks  us  to  fight  against  any  worse 
than  her  tyranny  to  us?  The  slave-drivers  may  differ 
in  the  degree  of  their  brutality,  but  they  are  the  same 
in  kind.  Why  should  Irishmen  believe  in  England  as  the 
deliverer  of  the  human  race?  If  she  wants  us  to  have 
faith  in  her,  let  her  free  us  first." 

"Give  her  time.  She  has  to  find  the  way,"  he  said 
doubtfully. 

"The  way  out  of  doing  anything,"  she  said  quickly. 
"But  this  isn't  a  debating  argument,"  she  went  on  sadly 
after  a  short  pause.  "It's  too  great  a  tragedy  for  that. 
England  is  on  the  right  side  in  this  war,  but  with  all  her 
talk  she's  not  going  into  it  with  clean  hands.  Let  her  do 
in  Ireland  to-morrow  what  she  says  she  wants  to  do  for 
the  whole  world,  and  every  Irishman  will  be  at  her  back. 
She  can  do  it  by  the  stroke  of  a  pen.  She  hasn't  done  it 
and  she  won't  do  it,  for  the  curse  of  conquest  is  on  her. 
I've  read  the  speeches  you  talk  of.  If  I  were  English 
they  might  fire  me  with  enthusiasm.  But  as  an  Irish- 
woman they  only  make  me  hard  and  bitter.  English 
blood  boils  at  a  recital  of  the  wrongs  with  which  Germany 
threatens  the  world.  But  it  is  a  reminder  to  me  of  the 
wrong  England  is  not  merely  threatening,  but  is  actually 
inflicting  on  Ireland  at  this  moment.  She  asks  us  to  help 
her  to  prevent  Germany  doing  to  her  and  others  what  she 
herself  is  doing  to  us.  My  God." 

She  burst  suddenly  into  a  fit  of  sobbing. 

"Don't,  Diana,  "he  said  pleadingly.  "You've  worked 
yourself  up  to  this.  What  you  say  is  only  half  true. 
There  has  been  a  struggle  going  on  in  England  for  years 


286  Conquest 

between  two  ideals  of  life  and  government.  The  ideal 
that  has  led  her  into  this  war  is  the  very  opposite  of  the 
policy  which  coerces  Ireland — it  hasn't  killed  conquest, 
but  for  the  first  time  it  has  prevailed  over  it.  Freedom 
for  Ireland  is  as  certain  as  that  you're  sitting  there." 

"At  once?"  she  said  with  an  ironic  smile  through  her 
tears. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  I  wish  I  had  your  faith,  Jim,"  she  said  sadly,  drying 
her  eyes.  "  Though  I  fear  the  age  of  moving  mountains 
by  faith  has  passed  for  ever.  Like  Doubting  Thomas,  I 
must  have  visible  proof.  I  have  too  much  English  blood 
in  me  not  to  be  suspicious  of  English  good  faith.  I  admit 
that  England  is  groping  after  justice.  It  was  even  a 
factor  in  driving  her  into  the  war.  But  I  see  no  sign  that 
it  is  the  prevailing  motive.  That  has  yet  to  be  proved, 
and  her  treatment  of  Ireland  is  my  test.  I'll  be  with 
you,  Jim,  if  she  only  gives  me  half  a  chance." 

"You  promise?"  he  said,  taking  her  hand. 

She  made  a  movement  towards  him,  but  drew  back 
shivering  and  shook  her  hand  free. 

"You  must  go?"  she  said  miserably. 

"  I  must,"  he  said  sternly.  "  God  knows  I  love  Ireland 
as  much  as  you  do,  but  there  is  something  bigger  than 
Ireland  in  all  this.  The  freedom  of  the  world  is  in  the 
balance.  I  can't  wait  to  bargain.  I  know  England  will 
act  decently." 

"You  think  you  are  going  to  fight  for  Ireland  ? "  she  said 
harshly. 

"Why,  of  course.  Ireland  is  inseparable  from  what 
England  is  fighting  for  now.  Can't  you  see  it  ? "  he  said 
impatiently.  "Redmond  sees  it.  Twenty  men  are 
going  from  Tullyfin  at  once.  In  a  few  months  thousands 
of  Irishmen  will  be  in  the  Army.  Diana,  can't  you  have 
a  little  faith?" 


Conquest  287 

She  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
passionately.  She  clung  to  him  for  several  minutes, 
sobbing  convulsively.  He  kissed  her  hair  and  the  back 
of  her  neck. 

' '  Crush  me,  Jim.  Break  me, "  she  said  in  an  exhausted 
voice. 

She  lay  quite  still  in  his  arms  and  then  suddenly 
pushed  him  away  from  her.  She  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  trembling. 

"That's  the  last  of  my  weakness,"  she  said,  standing  in 
front  of  him,  with  a  pitiful  twitching  of  her  lips.  "  Good- 
bye now.  No,  don't  touch  me.  Don't  wait  for  dinner — 
I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"  I  must  dine  with  my  mother  in  any  case,"  he  said  per- 
plexed. "But  what  do  you  mean?  I  can't  leave  you 
like  this.  I  shan't  see  you  again,  and  we  must  settle 
things." 

"Why  can't  you  go  while  I  see  only  you?  I  love  you, 
Jim.  I  will  always  love  you.  Do  go,  for  God's  sake." 

"  Diana,  have  sense.  We  must  fix  up  about  our  mar- 
riage," he  said  appealingly. 

She  flung  herself  down  on  the  settee. 

"Must  we  go  back  to  that  again?"  she  said  despair- 
ingly. "Can't  you  see  the  yawning  gulf  between  us? 
You  say  it  isn't  there.  I  pray  night  and  day  to  make  me 
see  as  you  do.  But  I  can  see  no  hope.  I  see  you  broken 
on  the  wheel  of  your  faith.  You  trust  England,  and  I  see 
her  prepared  to  betray  you.  I  see  the  old  evasions 
beginning  already.  The  England  of  conquest  is  not 
dead.  She's  only  using  her  idealists  while  they  go  her 
way.  The  reactionaries  who  were  stirring  up  civil  war 
a  month  ago  in  order  to  prevent  Ireland  from  getting 
a  trumpery  measure  of  local  government  haven't  become 
apostles  of  liberty  in  a  night.  They  want  to  down 
Germany,  and  they  have  hopes  of  being  able  to  tighten 


288  Conquest 

the  halter  on  us  in  the  process.  They  are  your  England 
and  not  a  handful  of  idealists." 

"This  is  blind  prejudice,"  he  said  hopelessly. 

"Your  faith  is  a  much  blinder  credulity,"  she  said 
sharply. 

"But  if  England  proves  I'm  right?" 

"  I'll  marry  you  that  day.  There's  Simon's  car.  Kiss 
me.  Oh,  Jim." 

" Hullo,  Jim,  where  are  you? "  Simon  Lentaigne's  voice 
boomed  from  the  front  hall. 


PART  FOUR 

I 

A  YEAR  and  a  half  of  war  had  left  its  mark  on  Jim  Daly. 
A  wooden  leg  was  the  most  obvious  sign.  The  greyness 
of  his  face  under  the  eyes  was  the  result  of  long  months  in 
hospital  and  would  probably  wear  off,  but  a  harder  set  of 
his  lips  and  an  introspective  look  in  his  eyes  seemed  to 
have  come  for  good.  His  look  of  boyishness  had  alto- 
gether gone.  His  skin  was  stretched  more  tightly  on  his 
face,  and  sharply  denned  his  jaw  and  the  bony  structure 
of  his  forehead. 

He  sat  in  a  low  armchair,  staring  at  the  fire  in  his  own 
den  in  the  St.  James's  Place  house,  his  right  leg,  with  its 
perfect  brown  boot,  resting  stiffly  on  the  end  of  the 
fender.  A  review  was  open  on  his  knees,  but  he  had  not 
looked  at  it  for  half  an  hour. 

Bateson,  his  feet  on  the  mantelpiece,  hunched  up  in 
another  armchair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire,  was 
reading  a  book.  His  uniform  hung  loosely  from  his 
shoulders,  and  his  face  was  thin  to  the  point  of  ema- 
ciation. 

"What's  old  Silas  coming  for?"  he  asked,  searching 
round  for  a  pipe  on  the  carpet. 

"  Don't  know.    They  may  want  me  back." 

Having  found  his  pipe  Bateson  groped  for  tobacco,  also 
on  the  carpet,  and  gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  on  finding  it 
without  having  to  move  his  legs. 

"As  good  as  anything  else  I  should  think,"  he  said, 
filling  his  pipe. 


290  Conquest 

"Six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  another,"  Jim  said 
moodily. 

"Hope  Phipps'll  be  in  to  talk  to  him — they  both  know 
all  about  it,"  Bateson  grunted. 

"  Dale's  coming,"  Jim  said,  with  some  of  the  old  gleam 
of  amusement  in  the  quiet  eyes. 

"He'll  prick  some  of  the  humbug.  Damned  if  they 
don't  think  the  war  is  run  on  cliches  for  the  pleasure  of 
old  women  at  the  clubs.  Thank  God  I'm  going  back 
next  week,"  Bateson  growled,  taking  up  his  book. 

"Fit?"  Jim  asked,  with  a  doubtful  look  at  the  other's 
face. 

"  Fit  enough  for  a  bullet.  It's  about  all  they'll  let  me 
get  out  of  the  war,"  Bateson  snapped,  burying  himself  in 
his  chair  and  book. 

Jim  stared  at  the  fire.  He  huddled  back  more  comfort- 
ably in  his  chair  and  watched  the  changing  figures  a  huge 
lump  of  black  coal  made  with  the  glowing  embers  under- 
neath. A  face  which  began  as  Diana  suddenly  became  a 
leering,  toothless  hag.  The  wind  howled  in  the  chimney, 
and  hailstones  beat  in  gusts  on  the  curtained  windows. 
He  shut  his  eyes  again  and  saw  Diana  smiling  at  him .  In 
a  moment  she  was  gone.  He  tried  to  recall  the  image, 
but  nothing  came  except  an  inky  blackness.  Where  was 
she?  In  Dublin,  his  mother  thought.  She  was  to  make 
an  effort  to  see  her  and  would  let  him  know.  And  his 
mother  would  be  in  Dublin  to-night  on  her  way  home. 
He  listened  to  the  steady  swish  of  a  sleety  rain  on  the 
window  panes  and  shuddered.  Her  letters  brought  her 
so  near  to  him  and  kept  her  so  far  off.  She  poured  out 
love  in  one  page  and  in  the  next  harped  on  the  ever- 
widening  gulf  that  divided  them.  And  it  was  always 
"  I  told  you  so,"  about  the  treatment  of  Ireland,  with  no 
word  of  what  she  was  doing  except  that  she  was  busy. 
She  was  half  right  in  a  way  about  the  treatment  of  Ire- 


Conquest  291 

land.  His  lips  hardened,  and  he  gazed  sternly  and 
steadily  at  the  fire.  It  was  one  of  the  many  sickening 
things  of  the  war.  It  had  hurt  him  as  he  had  never  been 
hurt  before  in  his  life.  The  hardships  of  the  trenches 
were  nothing,  nor  his  wounds  nor  the  loss  of  his  leg.  It 
was  the  irresolution,  the  weakness,  the  cynicism,  the  bad 
faith  about  Ireland  that  had  killed  his  enthusiasm  and 
left  him  old  and  tired.  No  wonder  Diana  raged  against 
English  hypocrisy  when  he  found  it  so  hard  to  keep  his 
faith.  And  he  had  memories  of  unselfishness,  of  sub- 
lime courage  to  sustain  him,  while  she,  as  she  saw  things, 
had  a  perfect  fulfilment  of  all  her  suspicion  and  dis- 
trust. .  .  . 

"Let's  wash,"  Bateson  said,  with  a  look  at  the  clock. 
"We  mustn't  keep  Sir  Silas  waiting  for  his  dinner." 

In  the  common  room  they  found  Sir  Silas  planted  in 
front  of  the  fire,  holding  one  hand  behind  his  back  to  the 
blaze  while  he  emphasized  an  argument  with  a  wave  of 
the  other.  The  light  gleamed  on  his  shoes,  his  shirt 
front,  his  newly-shaven  face.  Phipps,  in  the  red  tabs 
and  crown  of  a  staff  major,  was  appreciatively  attentive. 
Dale,  in  a  somewhat  worn  uniform  of  an  infantry  captain, 
was  gloomily  stubbing  the  stone  guard  of  the  fireplace 
with  a  restless  foot. 

Sir  Silas  withdrew  his  left  hand  from  the  shelter  of  his 
back  and  waved  it  towards  Jim  and  Bateson,  but  he  went 
on  speaking  to  Dale. 

"The  result  is  certain  if  the  facts  are  only  put  before 
them — diplomatically,  of  course.  When  they  once 
understand  the  English  position  they're  sure  to  come 
round.  But  we  can  go  into  that  afterwards.  Indeed, 
it's  my  object  in  coming  here  to-night.  Not  that  I'm 
not  always  delighted  to  drop  in,  but  in  these  crowded  and 
momentous  days  one  must  combine  work  with  pleasure. 
I  see  Simpson  is  announcing  dinner.  Jim,  my  dear  boy, 


292  Conquest 

you  want  a  sea  voyage  to  set  you  on  your — ahem — in 
order  completely  to  recuperate." 

He  put  a  hand  affectionately  on  Bateson's  shoulder  as 
they  crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room.  "Have  you 
decided  to  come  to  us?  Hard  work,  of  course,  but 
you'd  find  it  less  trying  than  in  the  Army,"  he  said 
suavely. 

"  The  Army  only  tires  my  body,"  Bateson  said  grimly. 

"Eh?  You  were  on  the  Balkan  Committee?  We've 
just  the  very  job  for  you." 

" More  secret  treaties?"  Bateson  said  with  a  sarcastic 
grin. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  must  get  rid  of  these  pre-war 
Radical  suspicions.  Look  at  the  Front  Bench — a  model 
of  harmony.  Come  and  join  our  happy  family.  You'll 
find  everything — ahem — quite  above  board." 

"Too  much  of  a  shock  after  the  Flanders'  doss- 
houses,"  Bateson  said  drily,  edging  off  to  his  seat. 

Sir  Silas  sighed  and  ate  his  soup  in  silence.  He  sipped 
a  glass  of  sherry  appreciatively. 

"The  country  that  can  serve  a  wine  like  this  in  the 
second  year  of  the  great  war  is  sure  to  win,"  he  said 
confidently.  "It  has  reserves  of  strength.  Even  our 
hock  at  the  Penguins  will  outlast  Kitchener's  limit. 
Think  of  that  for  foresight,  Phipps." 

"We'll  wipe  'em  out  this  year,"  Phipps  said  resolutely. 

Phipps  and  Sir  Silas  kept  up  a  brisk  discussion  of 
strategy  and  tactics. 

"I  haven't  been  out,  of  course,"  Phipps  admitted 
modestly.  "But  when  I  can  spare  time  from  the  House 
I  look  in  at  the  War  Office — they  know  there." 

Sir  Silas  lifted  a  doubtful  eyebrow,  but  murmured: 
"Of  course,  of  course." 

The  three  soldiers  listened  with  varying  expressions 
of  gloom. 


Conquest  293 

' '  Any  one  been  to  the  revue  at  the  Palace  ? "  Dale  asked 
in  a  pause. 

Jim  and  Bateson  showed  a  momentary  interest.  Phipps 
looked  at  Sir  Silas  with  the  smile  of  aloofness  from  the  herd. 

"We  have  no  time  for  frivolity,  Sir  Silas?"  he  said 
austerely. 

Jim  laughed.     "  Why,  I  saw  Uncle  Si " 

"Once  with — ahem — ahem — a  French  Minister,"  Sir 
Silas  said  hastily.  ' '  That  reminds  me  of  our  conversation 
before  dinner,  Dale,"  he  added  with  a  quick  return  to  his 
usual  aplomb.  "Now  that  we  have  dispensed  with 
Simpson  we  can  go  on  with  it.  We  want  you  to  go  to 
America,  Jim." 

"Good  Lord.  What  for?"  Jim  said,  with  a  wry  look 
of  surprise. 

"  You  should  never  have  left  us,"  Sir  Silas  said  in  a  tone 
of  mild  reproof.  "The  centre  of  things  needs  all  our  men 
of  brains." 

"You  might  risk  one  or  two  on  top  at  the  front," 
Bateson  said  moodily. 

"Over  the  top  is  their  fate  out  there  if  you  do,"  Dale 
said  with  a  grin. 

"Those  soldiers — those  soldiers,"  Sir  Silas  said,  in  the 
tone  and  with  a  nod  of  hopelessness.  "Well,  well,  no 
one  can  say  they  lack  confidence  in  themselves.  And  at 
the  worst  we  can  give  them  ideas  from  here.  Damn 
pig-headed  though.  But  in  your  case,  Jim,  it  was  an 
unnecessary  sacrifice.  And  we  had  some  work  for  you  at 
home  once  or  twice.  However,  it's  all  right  now — I've 
arranged  everything  with  the  War  Office.  It's  this  per- 
petual Irish  question.  We  get  constant  reports  from 
America  that  it's  playing  the  very  devil  with  us  all 
through  the  States.  I  can't  believe  that  the  Irish  there 
understand  things.  They  don't  seem  to  know  that  we 
have  passed  a  Home  Rule  Act." 


294  Conquest 

Dale  laughed.  "And  put  it  on  the  shelf  and  promised 
Ulster  never  to  enforce  it,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"No,  no.  We  promised  not  to  coerce  Ulster  into 
accepting  it,"  Sir  Silas  said  soothingly. 

"The  Irish  have  eight  hundred  years'  experience  in 
interpreting  English  promises,"  Dale  said  with  a  shrug. 

"You  believe  in  us — you  are  wearing  the  King's 
uniform,"  Sir  Silas  said  with  benign  conclusiveness  over 
the  edge  of  a  glass  of  port. 

"I'm  wearing  it  for  my  sins — I  was  fool  enough  to  be 
caught  in  a  trap." 

"If  I  were  an  Irishman  I'd  be  a  Sinn  Feiner,"  Bateson 
said  with  sullen  emphasis. 

"Come  now,  we  couldn't  desert  Ulster,"  Phipps  said 
with  an  assured  smile. 

"You  make  me  tired,  Phipps,  old  man,"  Bateson  said, 
brushing  him  aside  with  a  grimace.  "Of  course,  you 
can't  desert  Ulster.  You  can't  desert  your  fellow 
conspirators.  You  helped  Carson  and  Smith  and  Law  to 
foster  rebellion  in  Ulster.  Instead  of  being  in  jail  for  it, 
or  shot,  you're  all  on  the  Front  Bench  now  or  on  your 
way  there.  You  may  or  may  not  have  been  play-acting, 
but  Berlin  took  you  seriously  and  you  precipitated  the 
war.  If  we  escape  a  rebellion  in  Ireland  during  the  war 
it  won't  be  due  to  you  and  your  friends.  You've  taught 
the  Irish  a  lesson  they  won't  forget,  and  you're  egging 
them  on  every  day  to  put  it  in  practice." 

"A  little  Sanatogen,  my  dear  fellow,  is  an  excellent 
sedative,"  Sir  Silas  said  with  a  sympathetic  glance  at 
Bateson's  strained,  cadaverous  face.  "A  dose  night  and 
morning  will  soon  work  wonders.  And  you  must  give  up 
worrying  about  the  past.  Liberal  and  Tory  are  one  for 
the  duration  of  the  war,  and  harmony  mustn't  be  dis- 
turbed. Carson  went  too  far,  but  it's  all  best  forgotten 


Conquest  295 

"Ireland  hasn't  forgotten  it,"  Bateson  said  harshly. 

"A  little  ruffled,  perhaps,"  Sir  Silas  said  with  a  medita- 
tive puff  of  his  cigar,  "but  we  can  always  manage  her — 
she's  at  our  elbow,  so  to  speak.  Soothing  is  the  best — a 
little  relaxation  in  the  war  restrictions  isn't  a  bad  idea. 
But  if  necessary  we  can  apply  pressure.  No,  Ireland 
doesn't  worry  me.  It's  the  Irish  in  America.  The 
Australian  Irish  are  giving  trouble,  too,  but  I  think  we 
can  manage  them.  We  simply  must  get  the  American 
Irish  right.  They're  interfering  with  the  output  of 
munitions.  Unless  they're  checked  they  may  prevent 
America's  coming  into  the  war.  In  any  case  they  seem 
to  be  delaying  it.  Your  party  might  have  done  some- 
thing Dale." 

Dale's  eyes  lit  angrily,  but  with  an  effort  he  restrained 
himself  and  laughed  ironically. 

"  One  must  bear  even  the  last  straw  with  a  smile,"  he 
said,  making  the  attempt  wryly.  "You  bind  our  hands 
behind  our  backs  and  expect  us  to  use  them.  At  the  out- 
break of  the  war  my  party  declared  itself  in  favour  of  the 
war.  We  did  it  because  you  said  you  were  fighting  for 
freedom  and  the  rights  of  small  nationalities.  We  did  it 
with  a  good  deal  of  risk,  for  we  knew  that  many  of  our 
people  distrusted  English  professions  and  promises.  The 
principles  on  which  all  English  parties  entered  the  war 
bound  them  to  pass  at  once  and  put  in  force  not  only  the 
Home  Rule  Bill  then  before  the  House,  but  a  far  better 
one.  We  didn't  wait  to  make  a  bargain.  We  trusted 
you  to  act  on  your  professions.  What  happened?  I 
was  brought  up  with  all  the  English  distaste  of  plain 
speech,  but  there  is  only  one  word  for  it — you  sold  us. 
At  no  time  in  her  history  was  Ireland  closer  to  England 
than  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  Practically  all  the 
Irish  people  believed  you  had  undertaken  a  just  war. 
Most  of  them  believed  you  entered  on  it  for  the  reasons 


296  Conquest 

you  alleged.  The  rest  only  waited  for  some  proof.  Well 
— you  know  what  happened.  Phipps  knows  more  of  the 
backstairs  intriguing  that  went  on  than  I  do." 

"We  were  anxious  to  do  something,"  Phipps  said 
uneasily.  "  But  the  Ulster  men  held  out." 

"You  can  apportion  the  game  as  you  will,"  Dale  said 
wearily.  "  But  English  honour  was  sacrificed.  Instead 
of  the  freedom  which  we  expected  we  got  a  slap  in  the  face. 
I  don't  mind  myself  or  my  party.  It  has  wrecked  us. 
We  raised  thousands  of  men  to  fight  for  you,  but  I  hope  I 
won't  be  among  the  few  who  come  back  alive.  When 
Ireland  realizes  how  she  has  been  betrayed  we  shall  have 
a  thin  time." 

"A  gloomy  view,  Dale.  Much  too  gloomy,"  Sir  Silas 
said  cheerfully.  "Pass  him  the  port,  Jim.  Ireland  must 
be  placated,  of  course.  She's  a  little  angry  now  perhaps. 
But  if  you  only  give  us  time  everything  will  be  set  right. 
After  all  there  is  that  Home  Rule  Act  in  the  Statute  Book. 
You  must  impress  that  on  them  in  America,  Jim." 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  there?"  Jim  asked 
coldly. 

"  Have  a  look  round  generally.  Find  out  what's  in  the 
air  and  at  the  back  of  the  minds  of  the  Irish." 

"  I  can  tell  you  now." 

"'Fraid  I  must  be  off.  I  have  an  appointment  with 
some  Southern  Slav  revolutionaries.  We  have  hopes  of 
a  rebellion  in  Austria.  See  Gridley  to-morrow,  and  he'll 
fix  up  your  credentials.  It's  a  great  strain,  Dale,  to  keep 
one's  eyes  always  clear  for  a  weak  spot."  And  Sir  Silas 
waved  himself  out. 

II 

Rough  weather,  a  zigzag  course  with  lights  out  and 
westerly  winds  prolonged  Jim's  voyage  to  New  York  to 


Conquest  297 

twelve  days.  The  boat  was  full  of  men,  singly  or  in 
groups,  engaged  on  errands  connected  with  the  war. 

An  interview  with  Sir  Silas  had  convinced  Jim  that  his 
mission  was  primarily  for  the  good  of  his  health.  His 
uncle  had  been  vague  as  to  what  he  was  expected 
to  do. 

"They'll  understand  you  and  you'll  understand  them," 
Sir  Silas  said  with  a  smile  at  his  finger  nails.  "You're 
Irish.  Englishmen,  the  dear  fellows,  never  quite  get 
there  in  America.  They  have  an  ineradicable  idea  that 
people  who  don't  speak  English  exactly  as  they  do  are 
necessarily  inferior.  This  develops  a  sort  of  mental 
crust,  that  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  little  narrowing. 
It's  perhaps  at  the  root  of  the  Irish  question.  It  makes 
difficulties  everywhere  abroad.  The  war  is  rubbing  it  off 
a  little,  but  it  lasts  like  the  British  Empire  itself.  The 
Englishman  thinks  the  American  crude.  The  American 
thinks  the  Englishman  a  bit  of  an  ass.  Soothe  them,  my 
boy,  soothe  them.  And  the  voyage  will  pick  up  your 
health." 

Jim  protested  that  he  himself  needed  soothing.  No- 
thing but  the  conviction  that  England  was  essentially 
right  about  the  war  enabled  him  to  tolerate  the  weakness 
or  stupidity  or  bad  faith  about  Ireland. 

"You  do  stick  it,  you  see,"  Sir  Silas  said  suavely. 
4 '  That's  the  main  thing.  You  don't  let  us  down  in  essen- 
tials. The  war's  got  to  be  won  and  America  has  got  to 
come  in — you're  sound  there.  For  the  rest  it's  rather  an 
advantage  that  you  don't  think  the  British  winged  an- 
gels. The  Americans  don't  and  won't.  They'll  feel  more 
at  home  with  you,  and  they'll  talk  to  you.  Write  me  a 
report — especially  about  the  Irish." 

"For  the  pigeonhole?"  Jim  said. 

"I'll  do  what  I  can.  But  everyone  is  so  busy.  No  one 
has  any  time  to  read  anything,  much  less  to  think. 


298  Conquest 

Good-bye,  my  boy.  Come  back  strong  and  we'll  put 
you  on  to  Austria." 

Jim  made  friends  with  an  American  who  sat  next  him 
at  the  captain's  table — a  tall,  thin,  wiry  man,  with  a  grey, 
hogged  moustache,  who  cloaked  a  cold  mind  with  a  tem- 
perament strung  with  nervous  energy. 

"Kenrick,  a  lawyer — one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
American  Bar,"  the  captain  told  Jim  on  the  second  day 
out. 

"America  will  come  in  I  suppose?"  Jim  asked,  as  he 
and  Kenrick  walked  together  after  breakfast. 

"Sure  to.  Got  that  out  there?"  Kenrick  said  as  he 
helped  Jim  on  to  the  boat  deck. 

Jim  nodded.  "Rather  a  nuisance  to  everyone  I'm 
afraid.  I'm  not  used  to  it  yet." 

"  Good  for  you,"  Kenrick  said  heartily.  "We're  in  the 
war  already.  But  politicians  are  politicians  everywhere 
— they'll  begin  to  move  after  the  November  elections. 
We're  a  mixture  of  races,  and  it  hasn't  always  been  easy 
to  see  the  wood  for  the  trees.  But  we're  all  Americans 
at  bottom.  Wilson,  perhaps,  could  have  handled  the 
situation  better,  but  I  don't  know.  He  has  a  difficult  job. 
It's  hard  to  disengage  a  big  idea  from  its  national  trim- 
mings. While  America  is  out  of  it,  our  Germans  are  in 
sympathy  with  Germany,  the  Italians  follow  the  lead  of 
Italy,  the  Irish  are  bitter  against  England,  and  even  the 
New  England  Americans  don't  love  you." 

"I'm  Irish,"  Jim  laughed.     " Daly's  my  name." 

"  Couldn't  quite  place  you.  Went  in  with  Redmond  ? " 
Kenrick  said  doubtfully. 

"No,  I'm  an  English  official.  But  a  Home  Ruler  for 
all  that." 

Kenrick  wiped  his  pince-nez  with  his  pocket  handker- 
chief and  took  some  time  to  adjust  the  information. 

"Well,  you'll  understand  how  it  is,"  he  said  with  some 


Conquest  299 

relief.  "  It's  got  to  be  an  American  war.  It's  for  some- 
thing bigger  than  America,  of  course,  as  it's  bigger  than 
England  or  France  or  Germany.  But  that's  how  the 
mass  of  our  people  have  to  see  it.  I  think  the  majority 
see  it  now — though,  perhaps,  Wilson  knows  better.  But 
the  day  America  enters  the  war,  it's  an  American  war, 
and  hyphenated  Americans  will  put  by  their  hyphens 
and  be  Americans  pure  and  simple." 

He  walked  for  some  time  with  a  troubled  face. 

"You're  not  making  it  easy  for  us,  you  know — England, 
I  mean,"  he  said  with  some  hesitation.  "America  is  going 
into  this  war  for  an  ideal — to  secure  the  freedom  of  the 
world.  I  suspect  a  phrase  of  the  kind  generally,  but  it's 
literally  true.  It's  a  moot  question  whether  our  interests 
would  be  better  served  by  going  in  or  keeping  out.  But 
that's  a  consideration  that  the  mass  of  the  people  never 
think  of.  We're  going  in  because  liberty  is  threatened. 
Our  Germans  will  fight  Germany,  our  Irish  will  fight  side 
by  side  with  England,  not  because  they  love  England,  but 
because  England  says  she  is  fighting  for  the  same  ideal." 

"Well?" 

"What  about  Ireland?"  Kenrick  asked  coldly. 

' '  What  about  it  ? "  Jim  said  uneasily. 

"  I  forgot  you're  an  official,"  Kenrick  said  with  a  shrug. 
"  I'm  Irish  myself,  far  back — my  grandfather.  It  sticks, 
I  suppose,  but  I'm  speaking  as  an  American.  I've  been 
in  France  for  the  last  twelve  months  doing  Red  Cross 
work.  I'm  going  home  now  to  try  and  hasten  America 
into  the  war.  I've  a  good  deal  of  admiration  for  what 
England  has  done  and  is  doing  in  the  war.  She's  on  the 
right  side,  and  I'm  with  her  till  the  world  is  free  of  the 
German  threat.  But  I  tell  you  frankly  that  her  treat- 
ment of  Ireland  is  hard  to  swallow.  England  talks  very 
loudly  about  liberty,  but  it's  largely  hot  air.  Or  it's  a 
liberty  she  tries  to  keep  largely  to  herself.  She  did  her 


300  Conquest 

best  to  keep  it  from  us.  Her  Colonies  had  to  browbeat 
her  into  giving  them  freedom.  But  the  worst  case  of  all 
is  Ireland.  There's  hardly  an  American,  even  before  the 
war,  who  didn't  think  England  a  tyrannical  bully  in  her 
dealings  with  Ireland.  Since  the  war  there  are  few  who 
don't  think  her  guilty  of  playing  rather  a  crooked  game. 
All  the  American-Irish,  and  many  others,  think  that 
England  trapped  Redmond  into  supporting  the  war  and 
then  deserted  him.  Her  Government  was  pledged  to 
Home  Rule.  They  had  their  chance  when  the  war  came 
of  healing  an  old  sore  for  ever.  But  did  they  do  it  ?  No, 
sir,  they  did  a  bunk.  It  flavoured  too  much  of  the  gold 
brick  swindle  for  us.  They  handed  Ireland,  bound,  into 
the  hands  of  Carson  and  his  reactionary  English  backers. 
England  has  got  to  act  democracy  as  well  as  talk  it  before 
she'll  get  people  outside  England  to  trust  her." 

"You  don't  believe  in  special  treatment  for  Ulster 
then?" 

"I  believe  in  making  her  toe  the  line.  I  was  born  in 
the  South — Georgia.  My  father  fought  in  the  Civil 
War — I  was  a  kid  then .  We  were  beaten  and  I  'm  glad  of 
it  now.  Our  country  had  to  be  united.  Ireland  has  got 
to  be  united.  I'm  Scotch-Irish  myself,  but  I'd  damn 
well  spank  Ulster  into  common  sense.  She's  got  swelled 
head  from  being  too  long  the  boss.  Nobody  in  Ireland 
wants  to  hurt  her.  If  England  only  cleared  out  all  Irish- 
men would  be  friends  in  twenty-four  hours.  We  can't 
help  suspecting  that  she  doesn't  want  to  clear  out.  She 
let  Carson  play  the  fool  before  the  war — or  was  it  Eng- 
land's game?  And  now  he's  going  to  rule  the  roost." 

"We  didn't  go  into  the  war  for  that,"  Jim  said  moodily. 
"And  you're  going  to  fight  with  us." 

"Your  young  fellows  that  I  met  in  France  didn't," 
Kenrick  said  warmly.  "They're  bully.  But  I'm  sus- 
picious of  the  old  gang  who're  getting  back  into  power  in 


Conquest  301 

England.  I'm  going  to  fight  with  them,  but  that  doesn't 
mean  that  I  trust  them.  We  have  a  common  cause  in 
this  war,  but  they've  got  to  prove  that  their  hands  are 
clean.  And  their  treatment  of  Ireland  makes  them  seem 
damn  dirty.  I  have  been  talking  to  some  of  that  crowd 
over  there,"  he  added  with  a  grin,  pointing  to  a  group  of 
Englishmen.  "They're  coming  over  to  explain  the 
English  position.  They're  decent  fellows,  but  they  know 
as  much  about  America  as  I  do  about  Arabia.  If 
America  wasn't  going  into  this  war  on  her  own  they'd 
help  to  keep  her  out.  They're  that  type  of  Englishman 
that's  the  greatest  God  damn  fool  on  the  face  of  the 
earth — who  expects  everyone  to  take  him  at  his  own 
valuation.  They've  muddled  on  to  the  right  path  this 
time,  but  we've  got  to  keep  them  there  and  make  'em 
think  out  where  it  leads  to." 

"Make  them  give  Home  Rule  to  Ireland,"  Jim  said, 
laughing. 

"That's  talking,"  Kenrick  said  grimly.  "We  will. 
Those  fellows  tell  me  they  want  a  union  of  the  English- 
speaking  race.  It's  a  climb  down  for  the  British  lion, 
and  if  she  wants  it  she's  got  to  pay  for  it  by  some  straight 
thinking.  The  Irish  question  means  a  great  deal  to  us. 
It's  been  cutting  for  years  across  our  own  politics. 
Though  I'm  Irish,  I  don't  want  an  Irish  question  in 
American  politics.  It's  a  damn  nuisance.  I  have  no 
bitter  memories  of  England.  I  come  of  Episcopalian 
Ulster  stock,  and  have  no  reason  to  hate  England.  My 
feelings  towards  her  are  only  those  of  the  average  Ameri- 
can. But  it's  different  with  the  great  majority  of  the 
Irish  in  America.  The  iron  has  bitten  into  their  blood, 
and  they  feel  ten  times  more  bitter  against  England  than 
the  most  extreme  Sinn  Feiner  in  Ireland.  They're  the 
great  bar  to  America's  not  coming  sooner  into  the  war. 
They'll  stand  in  the  way  till  Doomsday  of  any  real 


302  Conquest 

understanding  between  America  and  England  unless 
England  plays  the  game  decently  with  Ireland.  They'll 
go  into  the  war  because  they're  Americans.  But  up  to 
the  day  America  goes  in  they'll  intrigue  against  England. 
They'll  hate  her  while  they're  in,  and  they'll  work  against 
her  with  increased  fervour  when  they  get  out.  England 
blames  us  for  not  being  in  the  war  sooner,  but  to  a  large 
extent  it  is  she  has  made  our  difficulty,  and  we  resent  it. 
England  says  Ireland  is  a  private  matter  of  her  own.  If 
that  means  anything  it  means  that  she  claims  a  free  hand 
to  play  the  bully.  It's  not  a  plea  I'd  put  forward  if  I 
were  seeking  an  alliance  on  the  grounds  of  a  common 
democracy.  But  Ireland  can  never  be  a  private  matter 
of  England  while  there  are  many  times  more  Irishmen  in 
America  than  in  Ireland.  Many  an  American  President 
wished  to  God  it  was,  but  the  Irish  won't  have  it,  and 
they  tell  at  the  polls.  If  England  stands  on  technicalities 
of  that  kind  it  shows  that  she  has  learned  very  little  from 
the  war,  and  means  very  little  by  all  her  big  talk.  I  don't 
know  what  you're  coming  over  for,  but  the  best  work  you 
could  do  for  England  is  to  go  straight  back  and  tell  your 
people  to  settle  the  Irish  question  at  once — to  do  it 
generously  and  not  in  the  haggling  way  the  unworkable 
Home  Rule  Act  you  have  in  the  cupboard  proposes  to  do 
it.  Until  she  does  that  she  can  never  be  friends  with 
America,  though  we'll  fight  with  her  in  this  war  whether 
she  does  it  or  not." 

Jim  found  other  Americans  on  board  less  outspoken 
than  Kenrick,  but  in  substantial  agreement  with  him. 
They  were  full  of  appreciation  of  England's  effort  in  the 
war  and  spoke  confidently  of  the  intervention  of  America. 
But  there  was  always  an  element  of  suspicion  and  distrust 
of  the  ultimate  aims  of  England ;  and  Ireland  invariably 
cropped  up  as  a  test  of  her  sincerity. 

By  the  time  the  pilot  came  aboard  Jim  felt  that  he 


Conquest  303 

knew  as  much  as  he  needed  to  know  about  the  Irish  in 
America ;  but  Kenrick  told  him  that  he  ought  to  see  some 
of  the  real  Irish,  as  he  himself  was  almost  unhyphenated, 
as  were  the  other  Americans  on  board — mostly  war 
workers  who  tolerated  England  and  worked  for  France. 
Kenrick  premised  him  letters  of  introduction  to  repre- 
sentative Irish-Americans  whose  dislike  of  England  kept 
them  at  home  practising  a  rabid  pacifism  when  they  were 
not  actively  intriguing  against  England. 

"  Redmond  has  lost  ground  with  them,"  he  said  regret- 
fully. "  They  think  England  has  fooled  him.  Between 
ourselves  it  looks  as  though  she  had.  I  hope  to  God 
they  won't  stir  up  a  rising  in  Ireland.  I  couldn't  blame 
them  if  they  did,  but  it  would  make  it  more  difficult  for 
us  to  come  in.  I  don't  envy  you  your  job  if  you're  thin- 
skinned  about  criticism  of  England.  Come  and  stay 
with  me  when  you're  sick  of  it." 

The  extraordinary  hospitality  of  the  Americans  he  met 
on  the  boat  made  Jim  almost  admire  the  monstrous 
statue  of  Liberty.  They  asked  him  to  stay,  offered  to 
put  him  up  at  clubs,  and  gave  him  letters  of  introduction. 
Kenrick  proclaimed  him  a  friend  and  seemed  to  act  as  a 
magic  passport.  When  Jim  tried  to  refuse  a  civility  that 
was  sure  to  give  a  lot  of  trouble  to  the  donor,  he  was  met 
with  a  laugh.  "You're  Bob  Kenrick's  friend,  and  I  guess 
that  goes  in  New  York  and  in  most  places  out  of  it." 

A  brilliant  sun  was  melting  the  last  of  the  snow  as  the 
boat  made  its  way  up  the  river.  The  cold  harsh  wind  had 
suddenly  gone,  and  a  breeze,  soft  as  a  June  west  wind  at 
Scarty,  fanned  his  cheeks.  A  sun  haze  hid  the  dreariness 
of  the  New  Jersey  flats,  and  glorified  Staten  Island,  whose 
trees  and  knolls  already  held  the  promise  of  spring.  The 
tall  sky-scrapers  beyond  the  Battery,  as  the  sun  caught 
their  windows,  blinked  a  welcome  in  half  derisive  con- 
tempt of  the  sullen,  dwarfed  houses  at  their  feet. 


304  Conquest 

At  eight  Jim  dined  with  the  Kenricks  in  their  house  in 
the  first  block  of  72d  Street,  east  of  the  Park.  Mrs. 
Kenrick,  with  a  gleam  of  mischief  in  her  brown  eyes, 
asked  him  what  he  thought  of  America. 

"Noisy,"  he  said  grimly. 

"Bob  hasn't  done  his  duty.  You've  been  in  New 
York  several  hours  and  aren't  lyrical  about  Grant's 
tomb  and  Riverside  Drive  and  the  Palisades.  But 
here's  Mr.  Cronin — you  can't  escape  Ireland  in  this 
house." 

A  tall,  dark,  clean-shaven  man,  with  broad  shoulders 
and  a  strong  mouth,  shook  hands  warmly  with  Jim,  said 
he  was  pleased  to  meet  him,  and  asked  him  what  he 
thought  of  America. 

"So  far  I've  seen  only  Ireland,"  Jim  said  with  a  laugh. 
"The  Customs  officer  was  Irish.  My  taxi  driver  was 
Irish.  So  was  the  policeman  who  held  us  up  in  Fifth 
Avenue.  The  hotel  porter  is  Irish.  I'm  not  sure  about 
the  clerks  at  the  desk.  But  the  liftman  is,  and  the  floor 
clerk  and  the  chambermaid."  \ 

"So  are  most  of  the  judges  that  I've  to  argue  cases 
before,"  Kenrick  said  with  a  grin.  "  My  chief  grievance 
against  England  is  that  she  drove  them  out  of  Ireland. 
And  the  Mayor  and  the  Board  of  Aldermen  and  the  Con- 
gressmen and  Murphy — damn  'em." 

"Kenrick's  a  mugwump,"  Cronin  said  with  a  smile. 
"He  even  forgets  he's  Irish  when  he  remembers  Tam- 
many. Has  Yeats  been  writing  anything?"  he  added 
eagerly. 

"Cronin's  your  man,"  Kenrick  said  later  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. "He's  not  in  politics,  but  he  keeps  in  touch 
with  everything.  How  he  finds  time  for  it  I  don't  know. 
He's  a  lawyer,  and  a  good  one,  too,  and  up  to  his  eyes  in 
work,  but  Howells  would  tell  you  that  his  only  interest  is 
literature." 


Conquest  305 

For  a  week  Jim  felt  that  Cronin's  only  interest  was 
politics. 

"You  want  to  see  English-Irish  relations  through 
American  eyes?  Well,  I'll  show  you,"  he  said,  taking  up 
a  pencil  and  scribbling  some  notes  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope,  as  Jim  breakfasted  with  him  at  his  flat  in  the 
Washington  on  the  morning  after  the  dinner  at  Kenrick's. 

The  demonstration  was  a  procession  of  breakfasts, 
luncheons,  dinners,  and  suppers,  in  Cronin's  rooms,  at 
Sherry's,  at  the  Lawyers'  Club,  at  the  Century.  Jim 
met  hundreds  of  representative  men  of  all  classes  and 
opinions:  Dutch-Americans,  descendants  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  Scotch-Irish,  unqualified  Americans,  Irish- 
Americans;  republicans  of  all  shades,  democrats,  Tam- 
many democrats,  mugwumps,  socialists  of  many  hues. 
They  disagreed  about  America  and  American  ideals. 
Many  were  vehemently  for  the  war,  some  neutralist,  some 
pacifist.  Many  spoke  generously  of  England's  action  in 
the  war.  But  always,  even  with  those  who  admired  her 
most,  was  some  reservation.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the 
distrust  arose  in  connection  with  Ireland.  Jim  didn't 
meet  a  single  man  who  defended  England's  attitude.  An 
old  Republican  Senator  said  phlegmatically,  "  I  haven't  a 
drop  of  Irish  blood  in  my  veins,  though  I'm  one  of  the 
few  so-called  real  Americans  who  haven't.  I'm  of  pure 
English  descent.  I  like  England  and  English  institu- 
tions. I  try  to  stand  up  for  her  in  everything,  but  I  can't 
say  a  good  word  for  the  way  she's  dealt  with  Ireland.  If 
it  weren't  for  her  blindness  America  would  be  in  this  war 
long  since.  She's  not  only  keeping  a  sore  open  on  her 
side,  but  she  has  spread  it  over  here.  The  future  peace  of 
the  world  is  largely  a  matter  of  American  and  English 
friendship,  but,  war  or  no  war,  I  see  no  chance  of  it  here 
until  England  mends  her  ways  in  Ireland." 

On  their  last  evening  together  Cronin  said,  as  he  drove 


306  Conquest 

Jim  to  the  Bronx, ' '  I  want  you  to  see  old  Darcy .  He  was 
arrested  as  a  Fenian  in  '65  and  escaped  from  jail.  He's 
very  extreme.  At  one  time  he  used  to  have  a  large 
following,  but  the  Parnell  and  Redmond  movements 
drew  most  Irish- Americans  to  constitutional  agitation. 
Carsonism  and  the  shelving  of  the  Home  Rule  Act  have 
now  so  disgusted  even  the  moderates  that  Darcy  is  a 
power  again.  He's  always  plotting  abortive  rebellions; 
but  in  the  present  temper  of  the  Irish  here  and  in  Ireland 
he  may  give  England  an  unpleasant  shock  one  day." 

"  He  used  to  write  to  my  grandfather,"  Jim  said. 

"That  may  help  as  an  introduction,"  Cronin  said 
doubtfully. 

They  found  the  old  man  huddled  up  in  an  armchair 
in  front  of  a  gas  stove.  He  stood  up  to  receive  them,  a 
curiously  pathetic  figure  in  an  old  grey  dressing  gown 
and  carpet  slippers.  Deep  furrows  lined  a  forehead 
brown  as  parchment.  His  hair  and  scrubby  beard  were 
of  a  dingy  white.  His  cheeks  had  fallen  in  over  toothless 
jaws.  His  brown  eyes,  shy  and  placid,  had  an  expression 
of  youth  under  their  shrunken  lids. 

"I've  brought  a  friend  to  see  you,  Mr.  Darcy,"  Cronin 
said  respectfully. 

"A  friend  of  yours  is  as  welcome  as  yourself,  and  that's 
saying  little  of  the  regard  I  have  for  you,  though  you 
aren't  with  us  itself.  Won't  you  take  a  seat?"  Darcy 
said  feebly,  pointing  to  some  wooden  chairs  covered  with 
books  and  papers.  He  supported  himself  by  holding  on 
to  the  back  of  his  armchair,  and  made  a  movement 
towards  the  chairs  as  if  to  clear  them. 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  Cronin  said  cheerfully,  forcing  the 
old  man  to  sit  down,  and  tilting  the  books  off  two  chairs 
on  to  the  floor. 

"It's  ashamed  I  am  to  welcome  any  stranger  in  a  litter 
like  this,"  Darcy  said  to  Jim  with  a  rueful  smile  at  the  dust 


Conquest  307 

and  confusion  of  the  room.  There  were  books  and  papers 
everywhere,  on  the  deal  shelves,  on  the  floor,  on  a  small 
sideboard,  on  the  rough  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"I  think  you  know  Mr.  Daly's  grandfather — Pierce 
Daly,  of  Scarty,"  Cronin  said  as  they  sat  down. 

"Pierce  Daly  is  it?"  Darcy  said,  looking  at  Jim 
doubtfully.  "He  was  a  good  man  once — no  better. 
But  he  went  wrong  and  took  to  moderation." 

"There's  nothing  of  the  moderate  about  my  grand- 
father," Jim  said,  laughing. 

"Maybe  you're  more  moderate  than  he  is? "Darcy 
said  suspiciously. 

"Mr.  Darcy  is  all  for  physical  force,"  Cronin  said 
hastily.  "What  can  you  expect  of  a  man  who  sits  here 
reading  rebel  poetry  all  day  ? "  he  added  with  a  laugh  and 
a  humorous  look  at  the  tattered,  dust-laden  books. 

"It's  for  many  a  long  year  they  were  all  I  had  to  keep 
the  fire  alight  in  me,"  the  old  man  said  with  a  glazed  look 
at  the  smelly  stove.  "  Only  that  I  had  to  earn  my  bread 
to  distract  me  and  had  them  to  fall  back  on  when  despair 
was  gripping  my  heart,  it's  dead  I'd  be  long  ago.  But 
it's  thankful  to  God  and  them  I  am  that  I'm  alive  this 
day,"  he  added,  sitting  upright  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
glowing.  "Well,  well,  we'll  see — what  we'll  see,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause,  with  a  half  furtive  glance  at  Cronin. 

"You  wouldn't  play  the  German  game,"  Cronin  said 
with  a  shrug. 

"What  call  have  we  to  interfere  between  two  devils?" 
Darcy  said  vehemently.  "They  tell  me  the  Prooshian 
devil  is  bad,  but  it  was  the  other  one  that  tried  to  throttle 
me,  and  that  throttled  my  country.  Of  the  two  I  have 
less  hatred  of  the  devil  I  don't  know.  But  we'll  pull  the 
fangs  of  the  one  that  hurt  us.  The  Boers  near  did 
it — anyway  they  stood  out  three  years,"  he  added 
meditatively,  his  eyes  again  fixed  on  the  fire. 


308  Conquest 

"They  were  thousands  of  miles  off  and  had  room  to  run 
away,"  Cronin  said  drily,  "and  they  had  arms." 

"Your  father,  Tom  Cronin,  wouldn't  say  that,"  Darcy 
said  with  a  pitying  look.  ' '  Yankee  caution  has  coloured 
your  blood.  What  greater  crown  could  a  man  win  than 
to  die  fighting  for  liberty  with  a  pike  or  a  gun  in  his  hand  ? 
If  he  fails  itself,  won't  he  die  to  keep  the  blessed  light 
burning  ?  And  in  His  own  good  time  God'll  side  with  the 
right.  Who  knows  but  it  is  now?  Even  England  has 
the  pluck  to  fight  when  her  own  liberty  is  only  threatened. 
We'll  see.  We'll  see.  The  hardest  blow  that  God  ever 
struck  me  is  that  I'm  eighty-seven  this  day  and  can't  use 
my  legs,  but  thank  Him  for  His  mercy  He  hasn't  taken 
my  mind  and  my  wits  from  me.  And  there  are  young 
men  in  plenty — aye,  and  women  too — that  have  seen  the 
light  and  are  ready  to  follow  it." 

"I  hope  to  goodness  there  will  be  no  foolishness," 
Cronin  said  with  a  frown. 

Darcy's  eyes  glowed,  but  he  made  no  reply.  He  leant 
back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  the  fire  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"They're  making  songs  in  Ireland  again,"  he  said  after  a 
while.  "  It's  always  a  good  sign.  It's  fifty  years  since  I 
made  a  vow,  and  the  last  rocks  of  Kerry  fading  into  the 
mist,  that  I'd  never  go  back  only  to  help  to  set  her  free; 
and  here  I  am  now,  when  the  day  has  come,  talking 
of  old  songs  and " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  asked  Jim  would  he  like  a  drop  of 
something,  and  recommended  him  not  to  leave  Nevr 
York  without  seeing  Grant's  tomb  and  taking  a  trip  up 
the  Hudson  to  Albany. 

"  Are  there  any  statesmen  in  England  ? "  Cronin  asked 
moodily,  as  he  drove  Jim  to  his  rooms  at  the  Plaza. 

Jim  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There's  something  in  the  air,"  Cronin  said  with  a 
frown.  "  It  can  only  be  a  flash  in  the  pan,  but  it  may  do 


Conquest  309 

infinite  harm  here  and  to  the  cause  England  is  fighting 
for  now.  She  could  so  easily  make  friends  with  all  these 
people — even  with  Darcy.  The  greatest  joke  in  the 
world,  if  it  wasn't  so  serious,  is  what  Englishmen  mean 
by  self-determination.  You're  going  to  Boston  and 
Chicago?  You'll  find  it's  the  same  story  there.  If  you 
go  right  through  the  country  from  Seattle  to  Florida 
you'll  find  everywhere  what  you've  found  in  New  York :  a 
growing  desire  to  enter  this  war  in  spite  of  distrust  of 
England.  If  England  would  only  make  the  grand 
gesture  towards  Ireland — not  in  a  year's  time  or  in  ten 
years'  time,  or  when  she's  forced  to  it,  but  now  and  freely 
— nine  tenths  of  American  distrust  would  be  blown  away. 
I'd  almost  be  inclined  to  say  all  of  it  would  go." 

Jim  went  to  Boston  and  Chicago  and  got  back  to  New 
York  at  the  beginning  of  Easter  week. 

"Wasted  enough  time  in  discovering  the  obvious?" 
Kenrick,  with  whom  he  was  staying,  asked  drily. 

"How  far  would  you  go?"  Jim  asked. 

"As  far  as  I  could  stretch  with  the  will  to  go  my 
farthest , ' '  Kenrick  said  thoughtfully.  ' '  There's  only  one 
end  to  this  war  and  that's  victory,  and,  I  hope,  peace 
and  security.  Even  before  the  war  England  would  have 
been  more  secure  with  a  friend  beside  her  than  with  an 
angry  stepdaughter.  After  the  war,  if  we're  not  living 
entirely  on  hot  air,  the  talk  of  strategic  security  is  all 
bunkum.  Anyhow,  the  cutting  of  a  rotten  political 
halter  means  the  building  of  a  sound  economic  bridge. 
No  two  countries  in  the  world  need  each  other  more  than 
England  and  Ireland.  Let  the  Irish  themselves  decide. 
They've  got  to  feel  the  taste  of  freedom  first.  Who 
knows — I  think  so  myself — but  in  a  few  years  a  real 
Union  may  be  possible.  But  it  must  be  founded  on 
friendship  and  not  on  conquest." 

Cronin  came  quietly  into  the  room  with  a  set  face. 


310  Conquest 

"They've  started  a  rebellion  in  Ireland,"  he  said 
coldly. 

"My  God,"  Kenrick  said  despairingly. 

Jim  stared  at  them  dumbly.  He  heard  vaguely  that 
the  news  had  come  through  to  the  American  Government 
in  cipher.  The  newspapers  knew  nothing — probably  a 
strict  censorship.  Dublin  seemed  to  be  in  the  hands  of 
the  rebels.  There  were  few  details.  Jim  watched 
Cronin's  movements:  the  taking  of  a  cigar  out  of  a  box 
on  the  library  table,  the  lighting  of  it,  his  attitude  in  front 
of  the  open  grate,  as  if  something  vital  hung  on  them. 
But  what  he  heard  and  saw  made  only  a  feeble  impres- 
sion. What  really  reached  his  brain  and  rilled  it  was 
Diana.  He  saw  her  vividly  in  the  smallest  of  Cronin's 
actions.  If  he  missed  one  of  them  he  should  miss  her. 
It  was  as  if  she  was  his  power  of  thinking,  and  any 
attempt  to  give  her  an  existence  separate  from  it  would 
drive  her  away. 

"It's  sheer  lunacy,"  Kenrick  said. 

"The  clash  of  imagination  with  the  unimaginative," 
Cronin  said. 

"Provocative  stupidity  if  you  like — still,  the  Irish 
should  have  had  more  sense.  Nothing  but  evil  can  come 
of  it,"  Kenrick  said  harshly. 

"  If  England  could  only  see  it  for  what  it  is — a  gesture, 
and  rather  a  fine  one — it  might  settle  things,"  Cronin 
said  doubtfully. 

"She  won't.     She'll  shoot,"  Kenrick  snapped. 

Kenrick's  sharp  voice  half  awakened  Jim.  What 
were  they  talking  about?  Some  sort  of  silly  debate. 
Shoot  ?  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead.  It  was 
too  horrible. 

"There  were  no  names  mentioned?"  he  said  coldly, 
with  dry  lips. 

"None,"  Cronin  said,  looking  at  him  curiously. 


Conquest  31 1 

For  days  he  haunted  the  news  tape  at  the  University 
Club,  read  every  edition  of  every  newspaper,  called 
up  the  Consulate  for  some  possible  inside  news.  It  was 
such  a  storm  in  a  teacup  compared  with  the  war.  Yet  it 
seemed  to  hold  the  few  men  he  could  not  succeed  in 
avoiding  almost  as  deeply  as  it  held  him.  At  least  they 
talked  of  nothing  else.  There  was  a  general  suspense  of 
judgment.  In  the  club  smoking  room  he  listened 
apathetically  to  endless  discussion. 

"It's  a  stab  in  the  back,"  Bramton,  an  English 
journalist,  said. 

"It's  like  my  kid  of  three  going  out  solemnly  and 
attacking  with  his  fists  the  big  policeman  at  the  corner," 
Kenrick  said  drily.  "  Let's  keep  our  sense  of  proportion." 

"But,  my  God,  people  have  been  killed.  It's  cold- 
blooded murder,"  Bramton  said,  horrified. 

"Let  us  hope  English  newspapers  aren't  taking  that 
note.  It  has  too  much  of  the  foretaste  of  the  pogrom," 
Kenrick  said  gravely.  "The  world  is  not  inclined  to 
acquit  England  of  all  blame  for  an  Irish  revolution. 
Least  of  all  will  she  be  held  blameless  for  this  one. 
Eight  hundred  years  of  misgovernment  have  occasionally 
been  held  to  justify  another  name  for  what  you  call 
murder.  I  dare  say  there  was  a  time  when  George  Wash- 
ington— with  more  reason,  for  he  suffered  less — was 
called  a  murderer.  In  fact  we  know  he  was :  murderer, 
traitor,  assassin  even — all  the  names  you  are  now  inclined 
to  give  to  the  Irish  rebels.  He  succeeded,  so  you  give 
him  other  titles  now.  You  know  America  pretty  well, 
Bramton,  and  you  keep  your  ears  open.  Have  you  heard 
an  American  call  the  leaders  of  this  revolt  traitors  or 
murderers?  You  shake  your  head.  Well,  ponder  that. 
It  would  be  well  if  England  took  the  fact  to  heart  and 
reflected  on  it.  The  revolt  is  petering  out — is  over 
perhaps  this  moment.  We  shake  our  heads  over  the 


Conquest 


foolishness  of  these  men,  for  they  are  going  to  fail.  But 
it  is  the  shake  of  the  head  that  has  in  it  more  admira- 
ation  than  blame.  We  regret  that  this  has  happened  in 
the  middle  of  the  war.  The  war  matters  too  much  to 
America  to  make  us  draw  back  from  the  position  we  have 
taken  up.  But  do  you  think  for  one  moment  that, 
because  we  are  going  to  fight  beside  England  in  this  war, 
we  shall  echo  her  words  about  this  rebellion?  There's 
not  a  man  in  the  club  except  yourself  —  and  I'm  not  sure 
about  you;  from  your  vehemence  I  see  you  have  mis- 
givings —  who  doesn't  hold  England  responsible  for  this 
revolt  of  a  mere  handful  of  young  men.  How  many  are 
there  in  all  ?  Not  more  than  twelve  or  thirteen  hundred 
it  seems.  The  surprise  to  me  is  that  there  aren't 
more.  It's  not  a  revolt  of  the  ignorant.  It's  a  revolt  of 
the  educated.  It's  a  revolt  of  the  men  who  know  all 
your  past  from  the  day  Strongbow  landed  in  Ireland. 
It's  a  revolt  of  men  who  knew  they'd  fail!  But  the 
immediate  cause  of  the  rebellion  is  that  men  are  now 
sitting  on  your  Treasury  Bench  and  governing  Ireland 
who  were  plotting  against  Irish  liberty  just  before  the 
war;  who,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  diddled  Ireland  out 
of  a  miserable  sop  of  self-government.  And  for  God's 
sake,  Bramton,  give  talking  of  Casement  and  a  Ger- 
man plot.  We  all  know  poor  Casement.  He's  a 
picturesque  ornament  for  your  propaganda;  but  it's  a 
damned  foolish  sort  of  propaganda  here.  It  may  go 
down  in  England,  but  we  know,  too  well,  how  little  Case- 
ment was  in  the  councils  of  the  Irish  either  here  or  in 
Ireland.  The  next  few  days  will  be  a  critical  time  for 
England  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  especially  here. 
You  won't  be  blamed  for  putting  down  the  rebellion. 
But  everything  will  depend  on  how  you  do  it.  Those 
idealists  have  captured  men's  imaginations.  I'm  sorry 
to  inflict  this  tirade  on  you,  but  I  feel  the  whole  thing 


Conquest  313 

strongly.  I  go  back  to  my  illustration  of  my  kid  and  the 
big  policeman.  What  would  the  policeman  do?  Eng- 
land has  an  eleventh-hour  chance.  She  could  win 
Ireland  back  to-morrow  by  a  generosity  which  is  the 
only  wisdom.  Or — "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
looked  gloomily  at  the  fire. 

"  Or  ? "  Jim  repeated  the  word  as  a  question  to  himself 
over  and  over,  but  shirked  giving  a  reply.  He  was 
oppressed  by  a  feeling  of  almost  physical  fear.  What 
was  it  Cronin  called  the  revolt?  A  gesture.  Surely 
England  would  see  it.  The  men  he  fought  with  in 
Flanders  and  Picardy  would  see  it — those  generous  men 
who  always  applauded  courage  even  in  the  enemy. 
Bateson  would  see  it,  and  Leonard  and  Hill.  Even 
Phipps  would  be  uneasy  and  in  doubt.  The  new  spirit 
was  there,  the  new  outlook  on  life.  What  then  made 
him  afraid  ?  He  shuddered.  There  was  no  use  in  trying 
to  blind  himself  to  the  fact  that  the  new  had  not  yet 
driven  out  the  old.  And  the  old  spirit,  which  only  dimly 
understood  the  new,  was  in  office  and  was  still  governing 
by  the  old  methods. 

A  waiter  handed  him  a  newspaper.  He  looked  fever- 
ishly for  the  latest  telegrams.  .  .  . 

It  was  all  over.  Pearse,  MacDonagh,  Plunkett.  .  .  . 
He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  Perhaps  she  wasn't  in  it — 
though  there  had  been  more  than  one  mention  of  women. 
Poets  almost  to  a  man,  with  ideals  that  were  essentially 
the  same  as  those  that  drove  the  best  Englishmen  to 
heroic  graves.  And  it  was  unawakened  England  that 
prevented  them  from  fighting  side  by  side.  Surely  the 
England  that  was  fighting  for  liberty  would  understand. 
He  turned  over  another  page  and  came  on  a  later  tele- 
gram :  Arrest  of  Miss  Diana  Scovell  and  Michael  Driscoll. 
The  print  swam  in  front  of  his  eyes.  It  was  some 
minutes  before  he  could  read  the  details.  She  had  been 


3H  Conquest 

in  command  of  one  of  the  surrendered  buildings.  Dris- 
coll  was  leader  of  a  country  detachment.  .  .  . 

He  struggled  out  of  the  club  and  found  himself,  when 
evening  fell,  in  Central  Park.  He  had  walked  round 
and  round  for  hours  till  his  leg  was  numb,  and  the  same 
arguments  went  full  circle  time  after  time  in  his  mind. 

"You  know  some  of  them?"  Mrs.  Kenrick  said  at 
dinner. 

"All  of  them  I  think." 

"The  woman,  too?" 

He  nodded. 

"Surely  they  can't  shoot  her? "  she  said  sympathically. 

He  stared  at  her.  Something  seemed  to  snap  in  him. 
It  was  as  if  some  impending  horror  had  at  last  fallen. 

"Surely  not,"  he  echoed  coldly.  He  noticed  that  she 
was  looking  at  him  curiously.  He  pulled  himself  to- 
gether and  found  himself  speaking  of  the  squirrels  in 
the  Park. 

The  days  dragged  on.  The  war  had  no  interest  for 
him.  The  shootings  began. 

"A  big  mistake,"  Kenrick  said.  "But  it's  hot  blood 
yet  and  could  be  forgiven." 

The  shootings  went  on. 

"England  is  mad,"  Kenrick  said  angrily.  "There 
were  only  a  few  men  in  this,  but  these  cold-blooded 
murders  will  drive  every  Irishman  to  fury,  not  only  in 
Ireland,  but  here,  in  Australia,  everywhere." 

When  the  wounded  Connolly  was  shot,  Kenrick  was  in 
despair.  "It's  a  crime  against  the  peace  of  the  world. 
Have  they  any  sense,  any  feeling?"  he  said  vehemently. 

Jim  had  become  apathetic.  "England  is  no  better  nor 
worse  than  she  was  a  month  ago,"  he  said  dully.  "I'm 
sure  there's  an  outcry  in  England  against  all  this.  The 
majority  of  Englishmen  believe  in  liberty,  and  many  of 
them  are  dying  for  it  every  day.  But  the  machine  of 


Conquest  3*5 

government  is  the  old  machine  of  the  conqueror,  and  the 
men  who  run  it  can't  shake  off  the  old  system — probably 
don't  want  to.  The  soldier  who's  responsible  for  all  this 
probably  thinks  it  a  triumph  of  law  and  order." 

"He  ought  to  be  shot,"  Kenrick  said  furiously. 

"  No,  he'll  be  decorated,"  Jim  said  with  an  attempt  at  a 
smile. 

He  grew  to  fear  the  newspapers  and  read  all  day  in 
Kenrick's  library  or  walked  in  the  Park. 

"Driscoll  is  the  only  man  shot  to-day,"  Kenrick  said 
one  morning  at  breakfast.  "And,  good  God,  they've 
given  a  woman  penal  servitude  for  life.  Diana  Scovell. 
What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"  He  was  my  cousin,  and  she — I  hoped  to  marry  her," 
Jim  said  dully. 

"And  you  can  take  it  like  that?"  Kenrick  said  won- 
deringly,  after  a  long  pause. 

Mrs.  Kenrick  left  the  room,  weeping. 

"  I  have  no  feeling  left,"  Jim  said  shortly. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"Write  a  report  of  what  America  thinks  of  her  coming 
ally,"  Jim  said  savagely.  "Do  let  me  alone,  Kenrick," 
he  added  gently.  "You've  been  very  good  to  me.  Let 
me  find  myself  again.  All  this  has  nearly  driven  me 
mad." 

"You  won't  give  up  England?" 

"Will  you?"  Jim  asked  coldly. 

"There's  a  big  idea  behind  the  war  you  see,"  Kenrick 
said  doubtfully. 

"I'm  a  slave  to  an  idea,  too,"  Jim  said  wearily.  " Eng- 
land has  done  her  best  to  kill  it  with  one  hand,  but 
with  the  other — well,  I  can't  forget  the  men  I  saw  die 
beside  me." 


PART  FIVE 


SIR  SILAS  LEVIN  watched  pensively  a  few  leaves  fall, 
flutter  awhile,  and  turbillion  gracefully  along  the  Champs 
Ely  sees.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and  with  a  half  repressed 
sigh  gazed  wistfully  at  the  converging  lines  of  vivid 
golden  yellow  that  stretched  up  towards  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe.  From  his  second  floor  windows  he  had  seen 
the  bare  black  trees  of  January  change  gradually  to 
masses  of  pink  buds,  to  the  tender  green  of  the  first 
leaves,  to  the  heavier  green  of  June,  to  the  frowsy  green 
of  the  hot  summer  months  which  made  him  long  for 
Deauville,  whither  many  of  his  fellow- workers  had  fled; 
and  now,  as  a  parting  gift,  was  this  austere  blaze  of  yellow 
gold  under  a  brilliant  October  sun.  He  sighed,  turned 
his  back  on  the  window,  locked  a  despatch  case  on  a 
console,  counted  half  a  dozen  small  cases  on  the  floor, 
and  looked  thoughtfully  at  Jim  Daly  who  lounged,  read- 
ing the  Temps,  in  an  armchair  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"You  need  a  holiday,  Jim,"  he  said  with  a  glance  at 
the  reflection  of  his  own  fresh,  pink  face  in  a  mirror. 

"I'm  going  to  have  it — a  long  one,"  Jim  said  with  the 
flicker  of  a  smile  on  his  worn  face. 

"Scarty?" 

"Yes,  Scarty." 

"  It's  a  wrench  for  me  to  get  out  of  harness  after  forty- 
six  years,"  Sir  Silas  said,  sinking  carefully  into  an  arm- 
chair. "Very  thoughtful  of  'em,  though,  to  put  me  on 
the  Lauder  Commission.  A  winter  in  the  sun  is  not  to 
316 


Conquest  317 

be  despised  at  my  age.  Sorry  you're  not  coming  with  us, 
my  boy,  but  these  little  plums  are  naturally  reserved  for 
old  war  horses  who  need  a  sun  bath.  Someone  is  sure  to 
know  something  about  the  work,  and  it  gives  us  all  a  well- 
earned  holiday.  As  I  said  to  the  P.M.,  it  merges  us 
honourably  as  well  as  pleasantly  into  the  ranks  of  the 
unemployed — damned  thoughtful  of  'em.  And  to  think 
that  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  I  was  within  a  month  of 
the  shelf — fading  out,  as  it  were !  And  here  I  am  in  the 
eleventh  month  of  peace  still  at  it.  It's  been  a  wonder- 
ful war.  And  you've  made  your  mark,  Jim.  The  ball  is 
now  at  your  feet.  Within  a  few  days  you'll  rank  as  a 
first  secretary — I've  seen  to  that." 

"My  resignation  is  there  on  the  table,"  Jim  said 
listlessly. 

' '  Eh  ? ' '  Sir  Silas  said  with  a  frown,  sitting  up  straight 
in  his  chair.  "You  must  give  up  that  nonsense. 
Thought  you  had  given  it  up.  Think  of  your  career, 
man.  Bless  my  soul,  are  you  mad?  Why,  you  put  your 
back  into  the  work — too  much  so,  if  anything — in  a  way 
that  convinced  me  that  you  wanted  to  stay  on." 

"Hope  dies  hard — and,  well,  it  helped  me  to  forget," 
Jim  said  wearily. 

"If  you're  not  satisfied  with  the  first  secretaryship 
perhaps  something  better  could  be  done,"  Sir  Silas  said 
hopefully. 

"Good  Lord,  it's  not  that,"  Jim  said  bitterly. 
Sir  Silas  lit  a  cigar  and  puffed  it  thoughtfully,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  fire. 

"  Ireland  again? "  he  said  with  a  slight  frown. 
"That  and  other  things,"  Jim  said  with  a  shrug. 
Sir  Silas  looked  at  him  sympathetically,  hesitated,  and 
said  quietly,  "I've  never  spoken  of  it  before — though  I 
felt  deeply  for  you.     Your  mother  told  me  all  about  it. 
About  Diana,  I  mean.   It  must  have  been  the  very  devil. ' ' 


3*8  Conquest 

"It  was,"  Jim  said  harshly. 

"You  saw  her?" 

"Once  in  Aylesbury  jail  when  I  got  back  from  America. 
And  again  when  they  released  her,"  Jim  said  tonelessly. 

"  I  hope — well,  that  she  saw  the  error  of  her  ways,"  Sir 
Silas  said  tolerantly. 

"  No,"  Jim  said  with  a  smile.  "She  only  saw  the  error 
of  mine.  I  couldn't  agree  with  her  then,"  he  said  light- 
ing a  cigarette.  "I  don't  agree  now — but  I'm  not  so 
sure." 

Sir  Silas  gave  a  sigh.  "You  couldn't  have  married 
her.  It  would  have  been  impossible — a  revolutionary — 
a — "  he  hesitated. 

Jim  laughed  bitterly.  ' '  I  met  her  with  a  motor  outside 
the  jail  and  wanted  her  to  marry  me  at  once  by  special 
licence — I  had  it  in  my  pocket." 

"Good  God!"  Sir  Silas  said,  genuinely  shocked. 
"You — an  official.  We  couldn't  possibly  have 
tolerated ' ' 

"Remember  the  Czechs  and  the  Jugo  Slavs,"  Jim  said 
drily. 

"They're  different,"  Sir  Silas  said  with  a  frown  and  a 
wave  of  his  cigar,  but  with  a  slight  uneasiness  of  tone. 
"Professor  Masaryk  is  now  President  of  a  republic  in 
alliance  with  us.  Dr.  Benes  is  its  Foreign  Minister.  Dr. 
Trumbic  is  Foreign  Minister  of  the  kingdom  of  the  Serbs, 
Croats,  and  Slovenes." 

"  They  deserve  it.  It's  to  the  credit  of  England  to  have 
helped  to  make  them  what  they  are  by  freeing  their  coun- 
tries," Jim  said  thoughtfully.  "But  how  are  they 
different  from  the  men  who  were  shot  in  Dublin  ?  They 
are  men  of  the  same  type,  with  the  same  ideals." 

He  looked  at  his  wooden  leg  moodily  for  a  few  seconds, 
smiled,  lit  another  cigarette. 

"My  wooden  leg  will  always  be  there  to  remind  me 


Conquest  3*9 

that  I  mustn't  give  in,"  he  said  confidently.  "This  war 
has  been  fought  and  won  for  an  ideal.  Some  day  peace 
will  follow." 

Sir  Silas  looked  at  him  uneasily.  "A  good  bracing 
holiday  is  what  you  need  to  set  you  up.  Why,  we've 
signed  the  peace,"  he  said  tentatively,  as  if  testing  Jim's 
sanity. 

"  Good  Lord,  you  don't  call  that  last  kick  of  the  world 
of  conquest  a  peace?"  Jim  said  derisively.  "I  don't 
wonder  poor  Wilson  is  ill." 

"We've  done  very  well.  Not  everything  that  we 
wished,  but,  on  the  whole,  very  well  indeed,"  Sir  Silas 
said  pompously.  "And  we  have  the  League  of  Nations 
to  carry  on  the  good  work." 

"Bad  as  the  League  of  Nations  is,  it's  a  miracle  that 
anything  so  good  escaped  from  that  game  of  grab  and 
vanity,"  Jim  said  moodily.  "When  the  men  who  really 
won  the  war  have  repaired  the  League  some  good  may 
come  of  it." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  it's  almost  time  for  dejeuner,"  Sir  Silas 
said  with  a  glance  at  the  clock.  "You  were  always 
impracticable,  Jim.  The  German  menace  has  gone  and 
the  world  is  breathing  freely  at  last." 

"Ireland?"  Jim  said  grimly. 

"  Ireland  always  makes  you  see  red,  my  boy,"  Sir  Silas 
said,  levering  himself  out  of  his  armchair.  "She's 
damned  troublesome  for  her  size,  but  she's  not  the  world. 
We  succeeded,  thank  God,  in  keeping  her  out  of  the 
Conference." 

"You  heard  enough  of  her  though?" 

"Yes,  damn  her.  And  America  is  rumbling  again," 
Sir  Silas  said  impatiently.  "That  was  only  an  official 
'damn,'  Jim,  my  boy,"  he  said  with  a  glance  at  Jim's 
pained  face.  ' '  I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  an  Irishman  at 
bottom,  or  perhaps  it's  because  I'm  enjoying  an  un- 


32<>  Conquest 

wonted  freedom  from  office,  but  I've  been  thinking  of 
Ireland  very  much  to-day.  When  I'm  rid  of  this  Com- 
mission I  want  to  settle  there.  Speaking  unofficially  as 
your  old  grand-uncle,  she's  been  our  biggest  failure  in  the 
war.  I  did  my  best  when  you  cabled  me  that  time  from 
America,  but  everyone  seemed  to  be  paralyzed,  and 
nothing  was  done  till  it  was  too  late.  And  then,  as  usual, 
what  was  done  was  wrong.  It's  a  sort  of  armed  camp 
now,  I  believe.  But  what  can  you  expect  from  the  sort 
of  people  we've  sent  to  govern  it.  They  learn  to  lie 
crudely  at  the  War  Office.  A  diplomatist  would  have 
settled  the  country  in  a  week." 

"  It's  too  late  now  even  for  subtle  lying.  For  once  in  a 
way  they  might  try  honesty,"  Jim  said  with  a  shrug. 
"Anyhow,  I'm  sick  of  criminal  blunders." 

"The  Cabinet  Committee  Phipps  is  on  might  do 
something — the  pressure  from  America  is  rather  severe," 
Sir  Silas  said  doubtfully. 

"  Good  Lord,"  Jim  said  hopelessly.  "  Come,  Uncle  Si, 
let's  feed." 


II 

Jim  saw  Sir  Silas  off  on  his  winter  holiday,  crossed  to 
London  next  day,  and  bade  good-bye  to  the  Foreign 
Office.  He  stayed  two  days  in  St.  James's  Place,  making 
arrangements  to  give  up  his  rooms,  and  waiting  for 
Phipps  and  Bateson  who  were  to  travel  with  him  to  Dub- 
lin— Phipps  in  quest  of  a  solution  of  the  Irish  difficulty, 
Bateson  to  write  up  Ireland  for  the  Thunderer. 

"  It's  been  a  rum  war,"  Bateson  said,  from  his  corner  of 
Phipps's  reserved  compartment  of  the  Kingstown  boat 
train.  "This  war  to  end  war:  the  war  of  universal 
liberty  and  universal  peace.  And  they  say  we've  won 
'em,  too.  Close  on  a  million  British  and  Irish  gave  their 


Conquest  321 


lives  to  that  tune,  not  to  speak  of  the  many  millions  who 
have  memories  like  this,"  holding  out  his  empty  left 
sleeve,  "or  less  conspicuous  but  quite  as  enduring  marks 
of  the  siren.  We  used  to  pipe  that  little  ditty,  Jim, 
even  before  the  war,  when  Phipps  said  it  was  all  tosh. 
And  now  that  they  say  it's  come  true  we're  both  broken 
men,  and  Phipps  is  in  the  Cabinet.  Am  I  Alice  in  Won- 
derland, or  the  Special  Correspondent  of  the  Thunderer 
on  my  way  to  Ireland  to  describe  the  operations  of  an 
army  in  the  field?  That  overfed  reactionary  opposite 
can't  be  governing  us  in  these  days  of  liberty.  I've  had 
only  a  third  of  a  bottle  of  Burgundy,  and  we've  just  given 
peace  to  the  world — the  Prime  Minister  says  so!" 

"The  burglars  seized  the  house  while  the  family  were 
at  the  war,"  Jim  said  gloomily. 

"The  country  is  sound  at  the  core,"  Phipps  said  ami- 
ably. "  It  knows  its  friends  and  naturally  chose  the  men 
who  won  the  war  to  do  the  reconstruction." 

"Good  Lord,"  Bateson  said  a  little  shrilly.  "They 
won  the  war  by  staying  at  home  and  bagging  five  billions 
by  profiteering!  And  the  damned  fools  who  risked 
their  lives  and  lost  their  limbs,  and  the  widows  and 
orphans  of  the  dead'll  have  to  redeem  the  debt.  What 
do  you  say,  Jim?" 

"I'm  going  to  sleep,"  Jim  said  wearily. 

He  shut  his  eyes,  but  he  couldn't  shut  himself  off  from 
the  discussion.  Two  days  had  tired  him  of  what  seemed 
to  be  an  interminable  argument  between  Phipps  and 
Bateson.  It  had  made  him  sick  at  heart,  but  as  he 
listened  now  it  somehow  gave  him  a  gleam  of  hope.  The 
England  in  power  had  made  Ireland  a  hell,  but  the  Eng- 
land in  power  was  not  the  England  that  won  the  war. 
The  England  that  fought  for  and  won  liberty  for  the  rest 
of  the  world  was  herself  not  free.  She  had  not  yet  broken 
the  shackles  of  the  old  order.  Selfishness  and  lust  of 


322  Conquest 

money  and  power  had  entrenched  themselves  while 
generosity  and  love  of  liberty  were  at  the  wars.  This 
explained  the  paralysis  at  Paris,  the  seething  discontent 
in  England,  the  misgovernment  of  Ireland,  the  distrust 
of  the  world.  But  the  doom  of  the  militarists,  the 
profiteers,  and  reactionaries  was  already  presaged  by  by- 
election  after  by-election.  With  a  freer  England,  with 
the  men  in  power  in  England  who  believed  in  an  ideal  and 
had  fought  for  it,  would  come  freedom  for  Ireland. 

"Hear  that,  Jim,"  Bateson  said  derisively.  "Old 
Phipps  is  going  to  settle  Ireland." 

"How  much  are  your  people  in  earnest,  Phipps?" 
Jim  asked,  mildly  interested. 

"Oh,  of  course,  we're  in  earnest,"  Phipps  said  doubt- 
fully. "  We  must  do  something.  That  damned  Liberal 
Home  Rule  Act  comes  into  force  on  signing  peace  with 
Turkey,  and  we  can't  keep  putting  that  off  indefinitely. 
It's  all  damned  awkward,  though.  Most  of  the  Com- 
mittee are  up  to  their  necks  in  promises  to  Ulster.  One 
can't  quite  trust  L.  G.  It  may  be  a  trick  to  round  on  us  ? 
What?  Of  course  he  may  be  on  the  straight — America 
is  pressing  him  hard.  But  one  never  knows  with  him. 
Damned  if  I  know  what  to  do.  If  America  had  ratified 
the  peace  treaties  things  would  be  easier.  But  something 
may  turn  up.  What  do  you  think  is  the  least  they'd 
take,  Jim?" 

"  The  same  old  game,"  Bateson  said  with  a  shrug  of  dis- 
gust. "But  perhaps  you're  prepared  to  do  something? 
I  see  Freddy  Smith's  been  over.  Going  to  round  on  his 
Ulster  friends?  Set  a  slim  'un  to  catch  the  slim  is  a 
sound  Georgian  principle.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised, 
though,  if  L.  G.  has  only  given  you  a  halter  to  hang 
yourselves.  He  sees  you're  played  out  and  wants  to 
creep  back  over  your  corpses  to  something  with  more 
promise  of  life.  Your  death  bell's  a-ringing,  Phipps." 


Conquest  323 

"I've  been  reading  the  report  of  the  Convention — 
something  might  be  done  with  that,"  Phipps  said  hazily. 
"Or  the  new  Federal  Commission ? "  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

Bateson  laughed.  "The  Convention  helped  you  to 
trick  America  into  the  war.  When  you  got  her  in  you 
never  even  read  the  report.  Try  again,  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
Good  Lord,  and  you're  going  to  settle  the  Irish  question." 

"What  do  you  say,  Jim?"  Phipps  said,  ignoring 
Bateson  with  a  frown  of  offended  dignity. 

"  I've  been  telling  you  for  over  twenty  years  but  you've 
never  listened,"  Jim  said  quietly.  "The  beginning  and 
end  of  the  Irish  question  for  you  and  your  party  was  that 
you  had  conquered  Ireland  and  would  do  as  you  pleased 
with  her.  It  wasn't  for  Irishmen  to  suggest  anything — 
it  was  for  you  to  decide  what  best  suited  your  own  purpose 
or  convenience.  That  was  the  view  of  the  English 
governing  class  down  to  the  outbreak  of  the  war.  It 
wasn't  the  view  of  all  Englishmen,  thank  God,  but  it  was 
the  view  of  those  who  pulled  the  strings  and  ruled.  You 
held  a  big  slice  of  the  world  and  you  were  determined  to 
stick  to  it.  You  never  let  go  anywhere  till  you  had  to, 
and  then  only  by  as  little  as  you  could.  In  1914  Germany 
challenged  your  position.  She  threatened  to  conquer 
you.  But  she  also  threatened  to  destroy  liberty  all  over  the 
world.  Enough  people  wouldn't  go  into  the  war  to  put 
or  keep  you  in  power,  but  they  would  to  defend  liberty. 
So  you  had  to  go  into  the  war,  not  to  maintain  your  posi- 
tion as  conquerors  but  to  secure  world  liberty.  That's 
how  you  got  your  armies  together.  That's  what  men 
died  for.  That's  what  the  honour  of  England  is  pledged 
to." 

"Pooh,  pooh.  Hyde  Park  oratory,  Jim,"  Phipps  said 
with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  Don't  waste  your  breath,  Jim,"  Bateson  said  angrily. 
"They  learn  nothing  and  forget  everything.  Phipps 


324  Conquest 

and  his  breed  came  out  of  the  war  just  as  they  went  into 
it — mere  party  intriguers.  They  got  us  to  fight  for  them, 
sneaked  office  while  we  were  away,  snatched  an  election 
before  we  got  back,  nobbled  the  Welsh  evangelist  to 
talk  liberty  while  they  practised  tyranny,  and  now  the 
fools  think  they're  going  to  rule  the  roost  till  kingdom 
come." 

"We  are  honourable  men,"  Phipps  said  urbanely. 

"The  humour  of  it  is  that  he  believes  it,"  Bateson  said 
with  a  grimace. 

"We  must  do  something  to  clear  up  this  mess  in  Ire- 
land," Phipps  said  with  a  frown  at  Bateson. 

"Clear  out  before  you've  disgraced  your  country," 
Bateson  grunted. 

"  The  only  way  to  clear  it  up  is  to  act  on  the  principles 
on  which  you  entered  the  war,"  Jim  said  quietly.  "It's 
the  honour  of  England  against  pre-war  party  politics 
now.  Clear  out  your  army  of  occupation  and  let  Ireland 
decide  for  herself.  It's  that  or  holding  the  country  by 
conquest." 

"But  surely  there's  a  middle  way — there  are  sane, 
reasonable,  patriotic  men  in  Ireland,"  Phipps  said 
impressively. 

Bateson  laughed.  "Sane,  reasonable,  patriotic,"  he 
echoed  derisively.  "  Men  who  think  like  Phipps." 

"There  were  many  middle  ways  till  you  broke  them 
down,"  Jim  said  patiently.  "Almost  any  sort  of  Home 
Rule  that  didn't  mean  partition  would  have  made  Ire- 
land friendly  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war.  You  chose  to 
provoke  a  rebellion.  Your  cold-blooded  shooting  of  the 
leaders  threw  the  whole  of  Nationalist  Ireland  into  the 
arms  of  Sinn  Fein.  If,  instead  of  misleading  your  Ulster 
dupes  you'd  been  in  earnest  about  the  Convention,  you 
could  possibly  even  then  have  imposed  a  settlement: 
Dominion  Home  Rule — making  Ireland,  say,  as  free  as 


Conquest  325 

Canada — would  have  served .  But  instead  you  began  the 
rake's  progress.  You  promised  Home  Rule  with  your 
tongues  in  your  cheeks  and  threatened  conscription — a 
promise  you  never  intended  to  fulfil,  and  a  threat  you 
were  afraid  to  enforce.  Well,  you  see  the  fruits  of  your 
work  now.  You've  something  like  a  hundred  thousand 
troops  in  the  country  armed  with  tanks  and  fieldguns  and 
aeroplanes.  You're  arming  the  police  with  hand  gren- 
ades. You  ask  if  there  are  any  sane  or  moderate  men  in 
Ireland.  There's  hardly  a  Nationalist  who  doesn't  think 
you  insane  or  criminally  wicked." 

"Read  the  returns  of  crime,"  Phipps  said  indignantly. 

"I've  read  'em,"  Jim  said  grimly.  "You're  not  even 
able  to  manufacture  good  propaganda.  You  exasperate 
a  whole  people  to  fury  and  then  point  triumphantly  to 
the  murders  you  provoked  in  justification  of  your  policy. 
Sinn  Fein  and  the  Gaelic  League  and  the  Women's 
Organization  you've  suppressed  are  as  incapable  of  mur- 
der as  the  Carlton  Club — less  so,  since  Ireland  is  the  most 
crimeless  country  in  Europe." 

"We  must  make  'em  observe  the  law,"  Phipps  said 
firmly.  "And  the  people  were  murdered." 

"  It's  notorious  that  some  of  these  political  crimes  were 
acts  of  private  vengeance, ' '  Jim  said  with  a  shrug.  "  You 
were  brought  up  with  a  sense  of  fair  play,  Phipps.  The 
situation  is  as  old  as  conquest.  The  effect  of  military 
tyranny  is  always  lawlessness.  Though  you  have  won 
the  war  for  freedom  it's  not  necessary  to  take  over  all  the 
methods  of  the  Turk.  These  murders  are  deplorable, 
but  the  guilt  is  between  the  Government  and  the  irre- 
sponsible people  who  committed  them  and  not  with  the 
political  groups  whose  reputation  your  propaganda  is 
trying  to  blacken.  You  are  blackening  the  good  name  of 
England  and  not  Ireland.  Sympathy  didn't  go  to  the 
Turk  and  the  Austrian  no  matter  how  good  their  pro- 


326  Conquest 

paganda  was.  It's  true  you  haven't  descended  to  a  gen- 
eral massacre  yet,"  he  added  bitterly. 

His  lip  quivered,  and  he  gazed  past  Phipps  at  a  view  of 
Chester.  Phipps  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  said 
half  apologetically: 

"  Damn  it,  Jim.     It's  all  only  politics." 

"  Shut  up,  you  ass,"  Bateson  said  roughly.  "And  you 
needn't  talk  like  a  damned  dull  book,  Jim.  England's 
all  right  this  time — it's  Phipps's  damned  Government. 
It  makes  one  almost  ashamed  of  being  an  Englishman. 
But  we'll  turn  'em  out.  See  if  we  don't.  And  then  we'll 
have  what  we  fought  the  war  for.  We'll  have  Ireland 
and  England  drinking  out  of  the  one  glass  before  you 
know  where  you  are." 

"  Massacre  was  unfair — perhaps,"  Jim  said  with  a  faint 
smile.  "You  see  it's  not  all  what  you  call  politics  to  me, 
Phipps.  We're  not  politicians  at  all  in  Ireland  in  your 
sense  of  the  word.  I  suppose  because  she's  down  she 
matters  too  much.  It  can't  be  a  game  even  on  the  surface 
with  us.  We're  particularists  if  you  like  to  sneer  at  us. 
But  then,  you've  got  there.  I  was  brought  up  as  a  child 
to  hate  you  all  indiscriminately.  As  a  boy  I  said  a 
hundred  times  that  I'd  fight  the  English  when  I  grew  up. 
Instead  I  went  to  Winchester  and  made  friends  with  you 
both.  Being  Irish,  I  can  throw  off  my  thin  veneer  of 
reserve.  I  soon  found  that  England  wasn't  all  anti-Irish. 
It  was  made  up  of  a  great  mass  of  people  who  hardly 
knew  that  Ireland  existed,  and  of  Phippses  and  Batesons 
— almost  as  many  Batesons  as  Phippses.  And  the 
Phippses  even  I  couldn't  hate.  I  thought  'em  wrong, 
but  I  could  understand  their  point  of  view.  The  evil 
was  that  most  Irishmen  saw  England  as  serried  ranks  of 
Phippses — not  like  our  old  stupid  Phipps,  Bateson,  but 
as  a  malignant  oppressive  race  that  governed  by  hate. 
I  was  right  in  my  view.  But  the  Irish  people  at  home 


Conquest  327 

were  right,  too;  for  the  government  they  got  was  a 
government  by  malignant  Phippses.  It's  a  curse  of 
conquest  that  even  the  Batesons — like  Swift's  bishops 
who,  in  crossing  Hounslow  Heath,  were  transformed 
into  highwaymen — when  in  Dublin  Castle  have  to  wear 
the  clothes  and  use  the  weapons  of  the  worst  of  the 
Phippses.  Not  even  a  Bateson  could  be  anything  but  a 
conqueror  under  the  Union.  My  dream  was  that  Ireland 
would  one  day  see  England  as  I  saw  it.  That  England 
would  allow  her  to  see  it.  And  that  England  would  see 
Ireland  as  I  knew  it  to  be.  But  this  could  never  happen 
so  long  as  they  stood  in  the  relation  of  conqueror  and 
conquered — and  conquered,  too,  only  by  persistent  force, 
for  Ireland  has  never  admitted  she  was  conquered  and 
has  always  been  in  revolt,  latent  or  open.  It  became  a 
counting  of  heads  with  me.  When  the  Batesons  in 
England  outnumbered  the  Phippses,  Ireland  and  Eng- 
land would  at  last  be  friends." 

"What  about  the  Ulster  difficulty?"  Phipps  growled. 

"The  Ulster  difficulty,  or  nine-tenths  of  it,  was 
either  an  obsession  or  an  invention  of  the  Phippses, 
and  would  disappear  with  them,"  Jim  said,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand.  He  sighed,  and  went  on  in  a  dull 
monotone : 

"Well,  the  war  came,  and  the  Phippses  shouted  liberty 
even  more  loudly  than  the  Batesons.  They  condemned 
conquest  and  the  idea  of  conquest.  They  nailed  the  flag 
of  liberty  to  the  mast  and  set  off  on  the  crusade  for  the 
salvation  of  the  world." 

"With  the  Jolly  Roger  hid  up  their  sleeve,"  Bateson 
said  drily.  "  Don't  you  worry,  Jim,  it's  the  last  cruise  of 
the  pirates." 

"I  believed  'em,"  Jim  continued  tonelessly.  "Red- 
mond believed  'em.  Dale,  with  all  his  cynicism,  believed 
'em.  Thousands  of  Irishmen  swallowed  their  distrust 


328  Conquest 

and  went  to  their  deaths  through  faith  in  Redmond. 
Well,  Redmond  is  dead  of  a  broken  heart.  Dale  was 
riddled  by  shrapnel  near  Noyon.  He  was  picked  up  by 
Reeve — one  of  your  lot,  Phipps — and  lived  long  enough 
to  have  a  last  sneer  at  England.  You  remember  that  smil- 
ing sneer  of  his?  Reeve  told  me  he'd  never  felt  so  sick 
and  ashamed  in  all  his  life.  Poor  old  Dale." 

He  paused  a  moment,  looked  listlessly  at  his  leg,  and 
went  on  with  a  harsh  laugh : ' '  And  now  I'm  going  home  to 
see  Ireland  rejoicing  under  liberty." 

"  You  ignore  the  rebellion,"  Phipps  said  in  an  aggrieved 
tone. 

"You  didn't  succeed  in  deceiving  them,"  Jim  said 
roughly. 

"That's  all  right  enough,  but  we  have  a  case,"  Phipps 
said  with  a  frown.  "For  our  own  protection  we  can't 
give  up  Ireland.  She's  necessary  to  our  defence. ' ' 

"The  old  excuse  for  conquest,"  Jim  said  drily.  "  And 
where's  your  League  of  Nations?" 

"Oh,  the  League  of  Nations!"  Phipps  said  with  a 
shrug  and  a  grin.  "And  our  foreign  policy  is  vital.  We 
can't  dream  of  letting  'em  have  that." 

"You  manage  foreign  policy  so  well,"  Jim  said  with  a 
smile. 

"And  the  police  with  the  hand  grenades?"  Bateson 
sneered. 

"Loyalists  must  have  protection,"  Phipps  said 
pompously. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do? "  Jim  asked  carelessly. 

"Give  him  time,"  Bateson  said,  fixing  his  rug.  "He 
has  never  been  in  Ireland  before,  and  he'll  need  at  least  a 
week-end  to  confirm  the  prejudices  of  a  lifetime. 

"We'll  impose  an  equitable  settlement,"  Phipps  said 
in  his  best  ministerial  manner.  "The  Sinn  Feiners  won't 
meet  us  or  discuss  matters." 


Conquest  329 

"That  is,  Ireland  won't  meet  you.  Well,  after  ignor- 
ing Ireland,  what  next?" 

"There  are  the  moderate  men,"  Phipps  said  vaguely. 

"As  they  exist  only  in  your  imagination,  we'll  let  you 
have  'em,"  Bateson  conceded  graciously.  "Well?" 

"  It  goes  without  question  that  we  can't  coerce  Ulster 
— some  gentle  persuasion,  perhaps;  but  we  must  bear  in 
mind  the  Two  Nations.  We'll  be  as  fair  as  we  can.  We 
have  to  carry  all  England  with  us,  and  let  the  world, 
especially  America,  see  that  we  mean  to  be  just." 

Bateson  looked  at  his  empty  sleeve  ruefully.  "Are 
we  back  in  1914? "  he  said  with  a  jeer.  "I'm  sometimes 
proud  of  being  an  Englishman.  But  I  must  admit 
that  such  damned  drivel  of  self-complacency  is  only 
possible  in  an  Englishman.  Old  Phipps  was  always  a 
bit  of  a  fool — that's  why  he's  a  minister — but  of  all  the 
asinine — "  he  shook  his  head  helplessly. 

"You  must  know  that  you  can't  do  it,  Phipps,"  Jim 
said  with  a  return  to  some  of  his  old  eagerness.  "Apart 
altogether  from  the  betrayal  of  the  ideal  for  which  we 
went  into  the  war,  the  thing  is  foolish.  You  can't  impose 
a  settlement — and  such  a  settlement — on  a  country  against 
its  will.  Especially  on  Ireland,  on  whom  you've  never 
been  able  to  impose  anything." 

"They  don't  want  a  settlement.  They  want  to  repeal 
the  existing  Home  Rule  Act  and  make  Southern  Ireland  a 
Crown  Colony.  Their  peace  is  Partition,  Coercion,  and 
Re-conquest,"  Bateson  said  derisively. 

The  ministerial  veil  descended  on  Phipps 's  eyes. 
"Nothing  is  decided,"  he  said  shortly. 

"England  isn't  mad,"  Jim  said  to  Bateson  with  a 
shrug. 

"Only  the  Government.  They're  drunk  with  the 
delusion  that  they've  won  the  war.  It's  not  Ireland 
only.  They're  straddling  ineptly  all  over  the  world. 


330  Conquest 

An  old  Admiral  has  said  at  least  one  wise  thing — sack 
the  lot." 

"We've  four  years  yet,"  Phipps  said  complacently. 

"  Give  you  four  to  one  against  it,"  Bateson  said  airily. 
"Making  peace  in  Ireland  on  your  lines  would  diddle 
you  in  a  month.  You  couldn't  do  it  with  double  your 
present  army  of  occupation,  gas  masks,  bombs,  hand 
grenades,  tanks,  and  all  your  other  fertilizers  of  liberty. 
But,  by  Jove,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  with  a  grimace, 
"  I'd  better  hedge.  You  have  a  chance.  If  it  became  a 
question  between  Ireland  and  office,  George'd  make  it  a 
Dominion — a  Republic  even — rather  than  quit." 

Phipps  scowled  and  settled  himself  into  his  corner  with 
pursed  lips  and  tightly  shut  eyes. 

"If  you  were  an  Irishman  you'd  be  sick  of  all  this 
juggling,"  Jim  growled  to  Bateson. 

"I'm  sick  of  it  as  it  is.  So,  I  believe,  are  the  majority 
of  Englishmen.  But  we  must  make  'em  sicker, ' '  Bateson 
said  savagely. 

Ill 

The  Dublin  coast  line  that  had  smiled  so  often  on  Jim 
was  grey  and  apathetic  as  he  stood  by  the  gangway, 
impatient  of  the  slow  entry  of  the  boat  into  Kingstown 
harbour.  The  soldiers  who  thronged  the  fore-deck  had 
donned  steel  helmets  and  all  the  accoutrement  of  instant 
battle. 

"A  hostile  landing?"  Jim  asked. 

"  Hush,"  Bateson  said  gravely.  "  Phipps  is  the  dove  of 
peace.  They're  his  escort.  You  mustn't  think  there's 
an  unusual  number  of  soldiers  in  Ireland — it's  merely  a 
good  training  ground  for  an  army  in  peace  time.  So  the 
Chief  Secretary  told  an  American  journalist.  A  Chief 
Secretary  is  always  an  honourable  man  noted  for  truth 


Conquest  33* 

telling.  He's  Phipps's  colleague,  and  he's  to  be  his  men- 
tor on  the  whole  truth  about  Ireland.  The  soldiers  are 
only  a  pledge  of  good  feeling.  Hope  they'll  have  a 
tank  to  meet  you,  Phipps." 

On  the  landing  stage,  however,  were  only  a  smiling 
official,  a  group  of  obvious  detectives,  and  a  background 
of  more  soldiers  in  trench  helmets,  armed  with  rifles  and 
fixed  bayonets. 

Bateson  firmly  declined  a  seat  in  Phipps's  motor  car. 

"Good-bye,  old  man,"  he  said  genially.  "Jim  and  I 
have  still  some  shred  of  reputation  left — we  don't  want  to 
lose  it." 

When  Phipps  had  driven  off,  with  two  attendant 
motor  cars,  there  was  a  long  wait  while  the  train  was 
being  loaded  with  military  baggage. 

"What  papers  have  you? "  Jim  asked  a  news-vendor. 

"There's  one  or  two  that  isn't  suppressed,"  he  said 
with  a  grin.  "So  you're  in  luck  to-day,  your  honour. 
If  it  was  to-morrow  now,  there  mightn't  be  one  at  all. 
It's  an  itch  they  have  on  them  for  disturbing  people,  the 
poor  creatures,"  he  added  with  a  contemptuous  leer  at 
the  soldiers. 

There  were  soldiers  at  Westland  Row  Station.  Soldiers 
lounged  in  the  streets  leading  to  the  hotel.  At  breakfast 
at  the  Shelbourne  the  tables  were  mostly  occupied  by 
officers. 

A  boyish-looking  major  of  about  twenty-four,  with 
several  wound  stripes,  jumped  up  hastily  and  came 
towards  Jim's  table,  his  hand  extended,  and  shouted, 
"Jim  Daly." 

"Stephen  Edwardes,"  Jim  said  gladly  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause. 

"Have  only  a  minute,"  Stephen  said,  taking  a  seat. 
"Got  to  prevent  the  Sinn  Fein  Parliament  meeting 
to-day.  They've  suppressed  it,  you  know.  Damned 


332  Conquest 

if  I  know  what  they  haven't  suppressed.  But  the  rebs 
have  the  laugh  on  us  every  time.  I'm  about  getting 
fed  up  with  it.  The  war  was  a  clean  job,  but  this — '' 
he  made  a  wry  face. 

"We're  doing  our  best  to  drive  'em  into  another  rebel- 
lion," he  added  with  a  gravity  that  was  new  to  Jim. 
"We  rounded  up  thirty-five  men  the  other  day  who 
hadn't  done  a  damned  thing,  and  they're  in  Mountjoy 
jail  this  minute — handcuffed  in  their  cells,  by  God. 
Why,  we  never  did  that  to  the  Germans!  And  Dan 
Sugrue  is  in  jail  on  suspicion  of  shooting  a  policeman! 
Dan  Sugrue  murder  a  peeler  in  the  dark!  He's  just  as 
likely  to  murder  his  own  young  son!" 

"Perhaps  good  may  come  of  it  if  it  has  made  all  the 
Covenanters  feel  like  you,"  Jim  said. 

"Oh,  nothing'd  stop  'em  gibbering  in  Belfast," 
Stephen  said  with  disgust.  "But  I'm  out  of  all  that  tosh. 
I've  had  too  much  of  the  real  thing.  Believe  me,  very 
few  of  the  men  who've  been  out'll  ever  dress  up  for 
Carson  again.  But  I  must  be  off  on  this  sickening  job. 
See  you  again — don't  be  surprised  if  you  see  me  a  Sinn 
Feiner  one  day — there's  a  limit  to  what  a  man  can  stand 
of  this,"  he  muttered  as  he  waved  a  good-bye. 

"That's  illuminating,"  Bateson  said. 

Jim  laughed.  "Stephen  is  hardly  a  type.  Many  of 
the  more  stalwart  Covenanters  are  having  a  go  at  Sinn 
Fein  now  under  cover  of  the  King's  uniform.  The  whole 
of  Ulster,  I  believe,  is  ruled  by  Carson's  chief  of  staff. 
That's  the  Government's  way  of  promoting  peace  in 
Ireland.  However,  Stephen's  attitude  is  hopeful — he's 
not  the  only  decent  man  in  Ulster.  Let's  go  and  see 
how  they  suppress  the  meeting." 

They  strolled  round  towards  the  Mansion  House. 
Except  for  an  unusual  number  of  policemen  and  soldiers, 
the  streets  were  much  as  Jim  remembered  them.  There 


Conquest  333 

were  amused  smiles  on  the  faces  of  some  of  the  passers-by. 
A  nursemaid  wheeling  a  pram  in  Stephen's  Green,  shouted, 
"Sold  again,"  to  a  passing  detachment  of  steel-helmeted 
soldiers. 

Along  the  pavement  on  either  side  of  the  Mansion 
House  were  massed  large  bodies  of  troops.  A  cordon 
was  drawn  round  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  broad 
steps.  Jim  and  Bateson  stood  on  the  opposite  pavement 
among  a  group  of  grinning  spectators.  Any  one  who 
tried  to  enter  the  Mansion  House  was  challenged. 

"There's  De  Lacey,"  Jim  said,  pointing  to  a  bearded 
man  in  spectacles  approaching  the  cordon. 

"You're  a  member  of  Parliament — you  can't  go  in,"  a 
soldier  said. 

"I  wish  to  see  the  Lord  Mayor  on  Corporation  busi- 
ness— I'm  an  Alderman,"  De  Lacey  said  quietly. 

"No  go,  you  know,"  a  second  lieutenant  said  with  a 
confident  laugh.  "The  lid  is  tight  on  the  meeting  of  the 
suppressed  Parliament." 

Jim  and  Bateson  had  come  near.  De  Lacey  turned 
and  saw  them. 

"You'll  be  able  to  tell  them  in  England,  Mr.  Bateson, 
of  the  efficiency  of  their  Government,"  he  said  with  a 
tired  smile.  "  How  are  you,  Daly?  I  was  up  all  night," 
he  said,  raising  his  voice  for  the  benefit  of  the  listening 
soldiers.  "The  meeting  these  poor  devils  are  here  to 
suppress  broke  up  at  three  this  morning  and  most  of  the 
members  are  now  on  their  way  home.  All  Dublin  knows 
it  except  the  Government." 

"Tell  that  to  the  Marines,"  the  young  officer  said  with 
an  uneasy  laugh. 

De  Lacey  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  away 
with  Jim  and  Bateson.  "It's  an  impossible  situation," 
he  said,  as  they  walked  towards  Nassau  Street,  "for 
them,"  he  added  with  a  smile.  "They  have  only  one 


334  Conquest 

choice.  They  can  put  Ireland  to  fire  and  sword — they'll 
have  to  kill  by  the  thousand,  and  even  then  those  that 
are  left  will  breed  again — or  else  give  us  what  we  want." 

"What  do  you  want?"  Bateson  asked. 

"Good  faith  first.  You  can't  overawe  us  with  tanks 
and  poison  gas;  nor  with  accusations  of  murder  and  bur- 
glary and  larceny.  The  only  crime  we're  guilty  of  is  the 
determination  to  make  Irishmen  as  free  in  Ireland  as 
Englishmen  are  in  England.  If  England  thinks  that  a 
crime  then  she  has  been  mouthing  lies  to  the  world  for  the 
last  five  years.  However,  it's  not  my  business  to  make 
England  logical.  Until  her  actions  in  Ireland  bear  some 
relation  to  her  professions  of  political  principle,  it  is  our 
duty  to  make  her  Government  ridiculous  and  impossible. 
We  are  doing  it  and  we  will  go  on  doing  it." 

"You  would  be  friends?"  Bateson  asked. 

"To-morrow,"  De  Lacey  said  with  emphasis.  "Only 
remember  this:  you're  not  able  to  make  us  friends  by 
force.  Much  less  can  you  make  us  friends  by  chicanery. 
You  tried  that  once  too  often.  The  men  in  Ireland 
who  are  bitterest  against  you  to-day  are  not  the  men  who 
fought  against  you  in  the  rebellion,  but  the  men  who 
fought  with  you  in  the  war.  You've  only  to  look  around 
you  to  see  why.  But  I  must  go  in  here." 

He  waved  a  hand  with  a  smile  and  went  into  a  book- 
shop. 

"  When  will  God  open  our  eyes  ? "  Bateson  said  moodily. 
"It's  heartbreaking,  Jim.  Phipps  and  Co. — good  Lord! 
A  stupid  Government  is  the  greatest  scourge  of  God. 
I  believe  this  war  has  meant  something  overwhelming  to 
us — that  England  has  found  her  soul.  Yet  we  have  a 
Government  that  rules  with  more  than  the  cynicism  of 
Walpole,  degraded  by  hypocrisy  of  which  he  couldn't  be 
accused.  Is  the  war  and  what  we  fought  for  all  a  delu- 
sion ?  Have  we  the  Government  we  deserve,  and  are  De 


Conquest  335 

Lacey  and  all  these  people  right  in  thinking  us  liars  and 
hypocrites  and  tyrants?" 

A  tank  followed  by  a  squad  of  soldiers  in  trench  hel- 
mets slowly  lumbered  up  the  street. 

"Damnation,"  Bateson  said  wrathfully,  averting  his 
eyes  as  it  passed. 

"  Do  you  still  believe  in  us,  Jim  ? "  he  asked  after  a  long 
pause. 

"  It's  hard  to  keep  one's  faith,  but  I  do.  In  an  England 
invisible  here — that,  perhaps,  doesn't  exist,"  Jim  said, 
staring  at  the  tank. 

"  Let's  go  back  to  the  hotel,"  Bateson  said  with  a  note 
of  resolution  in  his  voice.  "I'm  going  back  to  London 
to-night  to  raise  a  fiery  cross.  This  is  not  a  question  of 
Ulster,  or  of  England  and  Ireland.  It's  a  question  of 
the  honour  and  good  name  of  England.  We  can  never 
hold  up  our  heads  in  the  world  again  if  we  allow  this 
thing  to  go  on.  It's  not  a  matter  of  pressure  from 
America  or  unholy  pledges  to  Orange  politicians  or  a 
party  deal  or  saving  our  face  before  the  world.  It's 
whether  England  has  a  conscience,  whether  she  has  any 
thought  for  her  honour  and  her  word,  for  right  and 
justice,  for  fair  play,  for  the  principles  for  which  English- 
men shed  their  blood  in  the  war;  or  is  to  go  down  to 
history  faithless  and  dishonoured." 

Bateson's  words  rang  in  Jim's  ears  through  the  night, 
and  above  the  noise  of  the  train  as  he  travelled  to  Lisgeela 
next  morning.  Bateson  was  right.  If  he  could  only  pre- 
vail— and  he  must  prevail.  England  had  given  too  many 
martyrs  to  liberty  not  to  think  clearly  at  last.  .  .  . 

A  brilliant  sun  lit  up  the  brown  of  the  bogs,  the  yellow- 
ing trees,  the  red  earth  of  the  fields  turned  up  by  the 
plough.  It  glanced  on  the  ploughshares,  and  glittered 
on  the  bayonets  of  soldiers  on  the  march  beyond  a 
hedge.  .  .  . 


33^  Conquest 

Diana  was  right.  She  had  not  fought  against  the 
England  that  loved  liberty  passionately.  If  one  looked 
into  the  heart  of  things  she  had  fought  for  it.  For  she 
had  fought  against  that  last  remnant  of  tyranny  which 
still  darkened  the  soul  of  England.  ... 

At  Ballybawn  Junction  there  were  soldiers,  open-faced, 
bronzed,  and  laughing.  The  old  porter  scowled  at  them 
as  he  trundled  Jim's  luggage  as  close  as  he  dared  to 
their  toes. 

"  One  of  them  devils  killed  a  man,  and  they  put  it  down 
on  us,"  he  said  in  a  dull  tone. 

Soldiers  lounged  about  the  platform  at  Lisgeela. 
Father  Lysaght  met  Jim  at  the  carriage  door. 

"  It's  all  a  bad  business — a  bad  business,"  he  said  sadly, 
as  he  wrung  Jim's  hand.  "Come  here,  Mulcahy.  Be 
quick  and  attend  to  Mr.  Daly's  things,"  he  called  out  to 
the  red-headed  porter. 

Mulcahy  gave  a  sour  look  at  Jim's  stiff  leg  and  passed 
on  to  attend  to  another  passenger. 

"That's  what  comes  of  your  fighting  for  the  English," 
the  priest  said  whimsically.  "But  come  on.  I  want 
you  to  come  up  town  with  me.  We'll  send  in  Durkan 
to  look  after  the  things." 

"What's  become  of  the  market  ?  Isn't  this  the  Octo- 
ber fair?"  Jim  asked,  looking  round  the  deserted 
approach  to  the  station  and  at  the  empty  cattle  siding. 

"Sure  it  is.  But  not  a  fair  or  market  can  we  hold. 
They'd  be  an  illegal  assembly.  That's  what  I  want  you 
to  hurry  for.  Con  Driscoll  was  talking  to  three  or  four 
men  on  the  street  half  an  hour  ago,  and  they've  arrested 
him  for  it.  The  whole  life  of  the  place  is  held  up.  What 
does  the  Latin  say  about  God  sending  people  mad  that 
He  has  a  mind  to  destroy?  I  wouldn't  doubt  if  the  end 
of  the  English  was  at  hand  for  they've  gone  clean  off 
their  heads.  Run  in,  Durkan,"  he  said  to  the  driver,  as 


Conquest  337 

they  approached  Jim's  car,  "and  gather  up  Mr.  Jim's 
things  and  pick  us  up  at  the  police  barracks.  And  take 
care  that  you're  not  caught  talking  with  four  people  at 
once,  for  that  makes  a  felon  of  you,  and  these  idle  peel- 
ers," with  a  glance  at  the  blushing  policemen  at  the  sta- 
tion door,  "  'd  be  glad  to  get  some  work  to  do,  and  might 
land  you  in  jail.  And  let  us  come  away  now  to  the 
barracks,"  he  added,  taking  Jim's  arm  excitedly.  "Be- 
tween the  both  of  us  we  might  be  able  to  make  Inspector 
Foley  see  some  sense  and  let  Con  Driscoll  out." 

He  almost  dragged  Jim  along.  "If  we  don't  hurry 
they  might  motor  him  off  to  jail.  And  there  might  be  a 
riot  or  something  and  people  shot.  For  the  best  part  of 
my  life  I've  striven  to  keep  order  in  this  town,  and  now 
the  Government  is  putting  it  beyond  me.  A  policeman 
was  shot  near  here.  I  abhor  the  crime ;  but  what  can  you 
expect  under  military  rule?  Soldiers  and  peelers  break 
into  thousands  of  houses  every  week  and  breed  crime  in 
the  name  of  the  law.  The  Government  seems  bent  on 
blackening  Sinn  Fein  and  jailing  innocent  men.  So  the 
whole  district  is  proclaimed  and  put  under  martial  law. 
The  whole  place  is  at  sixes  and  sevens.  The  people  are 
exasperated  to  the  last  limit,  and  the  soldiers  and  police 
are  in  the  same  state.  What'll  happen,  God  only  knows. 
All  my  life,  Jim,  I've  kept  out  of  politics,  but  in  my  old  age 
I'm  sorely  tempted  to  take  a  hand  agin  a  Government 
that  could  be  guilty  of  such  a  crime  agin  God  and  man." 

A  detachment  of  soldiers  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  the 
white  and  black  police  barracks.  The  steel  shutters 
were  in  place  in  front  of  the  windows.  Two  policemen 
with  rifles  guarded  the  door.  No  difficulty  was  made 
about  allowing  the  priest  and  Jim  to  enter,  and  they 
were  shown  at  once  into  the  inspector's  office. 

"Bad  luck  about  your  leg,  Daly,"  Foley  said  briskly, 
shaking  hands. 


338  Conquest 

"Think  of  that  now,  and  me  never  thinking  of  it.  I'm 
very  sorry,  Jim,"  Father  Lysaght  said  with  an  affection- 
ate look.  "But  it  shows  how  ye  all  have  disturbed  my 
mind,  Mr.  Foley.  What  about  Con  Driscoll  and  the 
other  poor  men  you  have  arrested?" 

"What  about  'em?"  Foley  said  with  a  defensive  grin. 

"You  know  they're  as  innocent  of  any  crime  as  we 
are,"  the  priest  said  indignantly. 

"They  broke  the  law,"  Foley  said  firmly. 

"You  know  that  that  law  ought  never  to  have  been 
put  in  force  here,"  the  priest  said  with  a  keen  look.  "You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  why  Gage  was  shot?" 

Foley  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "My  dear  Father 
James,  the  Lord  Lieutenant  has  proclaimed  the  district. 
It's  not  for  me  to  question  his  acts.  There's  the  law  and 
I've  got  to  obey  it." 

"But  you  have  some  discretion  in  enforcing  it?  To 
arrest  Con  Driscoll  of  all  men — who  all  his  life  stood  out 
against  crime  of  any  kind!" 

"  His  son  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  rebellion — shot 
for  it,"  Foley  said  drily. 

"Father  and  son  might  differ,"  the  priest  said  sternly. 
"The  day  his  son  was  shot,  Con  was  fighting  the  Germans 
on  the  side  of  the  English.  He  spent  four  years  at  it  and 
was  wounded  twice." 

"  I  know  all  that.  It  will  no  doubt  tell  in  his  favour 
when  he  comes  before  the  R.M.  It's  my  business  to 
arrest  him  if  he  breaks  the  law — extenuating  circum- 
stances are  for  the  court  to  consider." 

"They  were  only  discussing  the  price  of  a  beast,"  the 
priest  said  helplessly. 

"They  were  breaking  the  law,"  Foley  said  in  a  tone  of 
finality. 

Jim  laughed.     Foley  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"What's  the  joke?"  he  said  sharply. 


Conquest  339 

"It's  too  long  and  intricate  to  explain,"  Jim  said  with 
a  smile.  "And  it's  as  wide  as  the  British  Empire.  You 
know  perhaps  that  Driscoll  is  a  cousin  of  mine.  May  I 
see  him?" 

"Oh,"  Foley  said,  wrinkling  his  brow  and  pursing  his 
lips.  "Well,  I  can  see  no  harm  in  that.  You  are  loyal 
anyhow." 

Jim  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  faint  smile  struggling  on 
his  lips.  Foley  touched  a  bell  and  instructed  the  police- 
man who  answered  it  to  show  Mr.  Daly  to  the  prisoner 
Driscoll's  cell. 

Jim  followed  the  policeman  across  the  hall,  through  the 
guardroom  with  its  gleaming,  sandpapered  white  deal 
furniture.  Two  men  in  handcuffs  sat  on  a  form  in  front 
of  the  fire.  Half  a  dozen  policemen  were  lounging  about 
the  room  or  reading  newspapers  at  the  table. 

"Driscoll  is  in  one  of  the  cells,"  the  policeman  said 
apologetically.  "We  had  to  separate  'em  or  maybe  it's 
an  'illegal  meeting'  they'd  be  holding  under  our  nose." 

He  took  a  key  off  the  whitewashed  wall,  hung  with 
rifles,  and  led  the  way  through  a  paved  corridor  at  the 
back.  He  unlocked  a  door  and  said : 

"A  visitor  to  see  you." 

By  the  faint  light  of  a  small  window  near  the  ceiling 
Jim  could  make  out  the  outlines  of  a  figure  lying  on  a 
narrow  bench  at  the  back  of  the  cell. 

"Why,  it's  Jim  Daly  that's  in  it,"  he  heard  in  Con 
Driscoll's  voice,  as  the  rug-blanket  was  pitched  on  to  the 
floor,  and  Con  struggled  to  his  feet,  impeded  by  his 
manacled  hands. 

"I'll  wait  for  you  in  the  corridor,"  the  policeman  said 
shamefacedly,  retiring  and  shutting  the  door  behind  him. 

"There isn't  a  seat  to  offer  you  beyond  the  board-bed  I 
was  lying  on,  but  sure  we  can  sit  there,"  Con  said  apolo- 
getically as  he  completed  a  difficult  handshake. 


340  Conquest 

"This is  too  bad,"  Jim  said  angrily  as  they  sat  down. 

"There's  no  loss  in  it,"  Con  said  thoughtfully.  "The 
crops  are  all  in  but  the  swedes,  and  a  touch  of  frost,  if  it 
comes  itself,  won't  harm  them.  It  isn't  for  long  they  can 
keep  me  locked  up  for  this,  and  it'll  reinstate  me  in  the 
good  opinion  of  the  neighbours.  Some  of  'em  used  to 
look  black  enough  at  me  since  I  came  back  from  the  war. 
But  a  while  in  jail'll  give  me  back  my  character.  And 
it's  well  I  deserved  to  lose  it  for  being  such  a  fool  as  to 
believe  in  the  English.  But  the  jail'll  make  me  clean 
again.  I'd  be  thankful  to  you  if  you'd  take  a  look  in  on 
Sally  and  Molly  Jordan  and  give  'em  what  comfort  you 
can.  Mike's  death  tells  hard  on  the  both  of  them  still, 
and  they  might  be  a  little  upset  over  this." 

"Poor  Mike,"  Jim  muttered. 

"  I  try  to  keep  the  thought  of  him  from  me,  but  it's  no 
use,  Jim.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  they  killed  him  in  fair  fight. 
But  to  take  him  out  and  shoot  him  in  cold  blood  agin  a 
wall !  The  first  I  heard  of  it  was  from  a  piece  of  news- 
paper that  I  wrapped  my  dinner  in,  and  I  in  the  front 
trench.  It  flustered  me  like  and  they  had  to  take  me  to 
the  hospital  I  was  that  light  in  my  head.  Captain  Dale 
came  to  see  me — it's  a  sad  man  he'd  be  to  be  alive  this 
day — and  he  tried  to  make  me  see  that  it  was  the  doing  of 
some  mad  general  or  other,  and  that  I  wasn't  to  hold  all 
the  English  to  account  for  the  doings  of  one  fool.  It  was 
hard  doctrine,  but  I  tried  to  bow  my  head  to  it  for  the 
sake  of  Ireland.  They  offered  to  let  me  home  on  leave, 
but  I  couldn't  face  Sally  and  Molly  Jordan  while  the 
memory  of  how  Mike  was  shot  was  fresh  in  them.  For 
two  years  and  a  half  after  that  I  did  my  best  to  help  to 
free  the  world.  And  when  they  said  we'd  set  it  free 
I  came  home  to  all  this." 

He  held  up  his  hands  and  rattled  the  chain  of  his 
handcuffs. 


Conquest  341 

"Was  it  a  will  o'  the  wisp  that  we  were  following  out 
there  after  all,  Jim?"  he  said  with  a  puzzled  frown. 
"And  they  were  so  much  in  earnest.  Sometimes  I  think 
it  must  be  a  nightmare  is  on  me,  for  it's  hard  to  believe 
that  the  same  men  who  carried  freedom  to  the  Belgians, 
and  the  rest,  can  be  giving  the  lie  to  themselves  here. 
The  Lord  Lieutenant  going  across  to  England  and  calling 
us  assassins!  It's  what  the  Germans  used  to  do  when 
they  wanted  an  excuse  for  murdering  innocent  people." 

The  door  opened  and  a  policeman  said  that  Father 
Lysaght  was  waiting.  Jim  was  glad  of  the  interruption, 
for  he  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  Con.  There  was 
nothing  to  say. 

"You'll  go  and  give  a  word  of  comfort  to  Sally  and 
Molly? "  Con  said  again  in  a  dull  voice,  "and  maybe  the 
neighbours' d  give  them  a  hand  while  I'm  gone  from  them. 
Glory  be  to  God  it's  a  bitter  bringing  up  He's  giving  to 
them  two  young  children  of  Mike's." 

The  priest  was  waiting  at  the  barrack  door. 

"  Your  mother  asked  me  out  to  lunch,  but  I  can't  go," 
he  said  with  a  worried  frown.  "  I  can't  leave  the  town. 
The  Government  is  kindling  a  flame  they'll  never  be  able 
to  put  out.  Flesh  and  blood  can  hardly  stand  it,  but  I 
must  stay  here  and  try  and  get  the  people  to  keep  the  law 
of  God,  anyway.  Though  how  the  good  God  Himself 
stands  this  sort  of  thing  is  a  mystery." 

Jim  drove  through  the  town  with  a  set  face.  Small 
detachments  of  soldiers  and  policemen  paraded  the 
streets.  At  almost  every  door  stood  one  or  more  of  the 
occupants  of  the  houses  with  sullen,  expectant  faces. 
A  boy  trundled  a  hoop  along  the  almost  deserted  main 
street,  but  stopped  opposite  the  Post  Office,  to  stare  at  a 
woman  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement.  Jim 
slowed  down  as  soldiers  approaching  on  one  side  of  the 
street  and  the  boy  on  the  other  blocked  his  way.  He 


342  Conquest 

brought  the  car  to  a  standstill  with  a  jerk,  and  lifted  his 
eyes  to  meet  a  smile,  half  cynical,  half  questioning,  on 
the  blushing  face  of  Diana. 

"You  can  walk,  Durkan,"  he  said;  "I'll  take  Miss 
Sco veil  home." 

Durkan  jumped  off  with  a  grin. 

"Even  with  Durkan,  we  shouldn't  be  an  illegal 
assembly,"  she  said  drily.  "You  could  let  down  the 
seat  behind." 

"I  could,  but  I  won't.  Get  in,  Diana,"  he  said 
resolutely. 

"  They  have  arrested  Con  Driscoll.  I  must  see  Father 
Lysaght,"  she  said  irresolutely. 

"  I've  seen  both  of  them.  Nothing  can  be  done.  It's 
all  damnable,"  he  said  angrily. 

"Jim?"  she  said  breathlessly,  her  eyes  glowing. 

"I've  come  home  for  good.  Whatever  my  work  is,  it  is 
here.  Get  in,  Diana,"  he  said,  holding  open  the  door. 

She  took  her  seat  beside  him,  nestling  up  close  as  he 
drove  slowly  towards  the  Tubber  road. 

"I  believe  this  is  only  a  last  fit  of  madness  before 
sanity,"  he  said,  nodding  towards  a  camp  on  the  fair 
green. 

"You  dear  old  Jim,"  she  said  happily. 

"Bateson  says " 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  what  Bateson  says,"  she  said, 
putting  her  hand  on  his  as  they  cleared  the  last  straggling 
house.  "  It's  what  you  do.  You've  come  back.  I  don't 
believe  in  miracles.  Yet,  who  knows?"  she  added 
dreamily.  "Faith  in  England  that  can  survive  the  last 
five  years  may  bring  any  miracle.  I  love  you,  Jim." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her  upturned  lips. 

She  clung  to  him  passionately. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  is,"  she  said,  releasing  him  as 
the  car  swerved. 


Conquest  343 

"Don't  I?    he  said  with  a  happy  laugh. 

"When  I  thought  they  were  going  to  shoot  me,  and 
again  when  I  was  sentenced  for  life,"  she  said  as  if  to  her- 
self, "it  wasn't  of  death  I  thought,  or  imprisonment,  or  of 
Ireland  even,  but  of  you.  And  death  was  easier  to  face 
than  the  life  sentence.  It  meant  a  shortening  of  the 
intolerable  longing." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  marry  me  when  you  came  out ? " 
he  said  bewildered. 

She  laughed  happily.  ' '  With  death  near  me  there  was 
only  you  in  the  whole  world.  But  when  I  got  outside  the 
jail  gate  there  was  England  again,  and  you  seemed  to  be 
England  to  me — then.  Now — well,  now  your  eyes  are 
open.  Or  is  it  only  half  open?  Anyhow,  enough  to 
marry  on.  Hullo.  There's  your  mother  and  your 
grandfather  at  the  gate.  Has  she  told  you  that  he  thinks 
you  were  away  fighting  the  English?"  she  said  mis- 
chievously. 

"Perhaps  I  was,"  he  said  grimly.  "And  I  believe 
I've  won." 


Wooden  Crosses 

By 

Roland  Dorgeles 

"  The  French  novelist  who  has  taken  Paris  by  storm  " 

fJT  "  The  hands  of  romance  have  laid  the  laurels 
M  of  fame  upon  the  young  head  of  M.  Roland 
Dorgeles,  a  French  novelist  of  remarkable  promise. 
All  France  to-day  is  talking  about  the  vivid  and 
light-hearted  narrative  of  a  French  infantryman's 
life  at  the  front,  '  Wooden  Crosses,'  for  which  he 
has  been  awarded  the  '  Femina  *  literary  prize. 

J]T  "  '  Wooden  Crosses '  was  written  in  1916,  but 
jJ  the  French  Censor  refused  to  allow  its  publi- 
cation until  last  Spring.  The  Censor  alone  knows 
why,  '  Wooden  Crosses '  is  infinitely  superior  to 
*  Under  Fire,'  by  Henri  Barbusse,  who  was 
awarded  the  Concourt  Prize. 

tfTT  "  Roland  Dorgeles'  work  does  not  minimize 
:H  the  mud,  the  monotony,  the  hardship,  the 
fear,  or  the  danger.  But  it  is  full  of  those  humor- 
ous incidents  which  illustrate  the  very  essence  of 
French  character." — Daily  Express. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 

Blue   Wound 

By 

Caret  Garrett 

On  accepting  the  MS.  of  The  Blue 
Wound  the  publishers  wrote  to  the 
author:  "It  is  a  very  strange  book. 
But  we  want  to  publish  it." 

The  author  wrote :  "  It  is  a  strange 
book — not  fiction,  not  allegory,  not  hard 
stuff.  I  hold  for  it  three  things :  It  is 
true.  It  has  the  form  of  a  wedge.  It 
sets  light  at  the  heart  of  a  matter  that 
has  made  the  world  mad." 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Show  D 


ow  Liown 

By 
Julia  Houston  Railey 


Here  is  a  novel  as  fragrant  and  real  and 
lovely  as  an  old  garden — the  story  of  a  girl 
who  faces  the  world  on  her  own  and  combats 
crooks  and  crookedness  fearlessly.  Running 
through  it,  like  a  glowing  thread,  is  a  charm- 
ing love  story  that  is  never  lost  sight  of. 
Nancy  Carroll  is  one  of  those  Southern  girls 
that  step  right  into  the  hearts  of  readers — not 
a  placid,  ease-loving  young  person,  but  an 
ardent  little  flame  of  a  girl,  with  gray  matter, 
humor,  and  charm.  An  eminent  critic  has 
called  this  the  best  first  novel  he  has  seen  in 
many  years.  It  is  an  authentic  picture  of 
little-known  aspects  of  the  present  South, 
with  drama  and  romance  and  grace  always 
in  the  foreground. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Too  Old  for  Dolls 

By 
Anthony  M.  Ludovici 


The  story  of  a  "flapper"  too  old 
for  dolls,  scarcely  old  enough  for 
anything  else,  but  capable  of  en- 
raging her  older  sister  and  even 
her  mother  by  the  ease  with  which 
she  secures  the  admiration  of  their 
male  friends. 

"From  a  Mohawk,  from  a  sexless 
savage  with  tangled  hair  and 
blotchy  features,  she  had,  by  a 
stroke  of  the  wand,  become  meta- 
morphosed into  a  remarkably  at- 
tractive young  woman."  And 
with  the  change  came  a  discon- 
certing knowledge  of  power. 

A  very  real,  very  tense,  and  very 
modern  novel. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


REVOLUTION 

A  STORY  OF  THE  NEAR 
FUTURE  IN  ENGLAND 


BY 
J.  D.  BERESFORD 


An  intensely  moving  story,  perhaps  prophetic 
— certainly  it  seems  so,  with  its  vivid  sweeping 
power  and  its  overmastering  sense  of  inevitability. 
This  is  in  no  way  a  picture  of  the  past;  it  is  the 
story  of  a  great  general  strike  which  paralyzes 
the  industry,  yes,  the  whole  life,  of  the  nation, 
and  of  counter-revolution  reestablishing  the  old 
but  by  then  disintegrated  and  disabled  order  of 
things.  Such  may  be  the  situation  in  sections 
of  Russia  to-day,  but  Mr.  Beresford's  book  brings 
it  much  nearer  home. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  LONDON 


Uu. 


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